


How They Make You a Weapon

by monicawoe



Series: How They Make You a Weapon [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Body Horror, Brainwashing, Broken Bones, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Gen, Guns, Hallucinations, Horror, Past Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Violence, sleep paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:50:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the prompt<br/>"Lovingly detailed dark!fic about the process by which Hydra turned Bucky into the Winter Soldier."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You wake to the whirring sound of hydraulics and a thick band constricting your right arm.

A stranger's voice rattles off numbers, "One seventeen over seventy-eight, heart-rate ninety-four…" 

Eyelids heavy, you force yourself to look at the overly bright room. It's yellow and stinks of antiseptic and metal. It's too clean to be a medic's tent. Army hospital, maybe, but not one you remember.

"Welcome back, soldier," says a different, closer voice. "We thought perhaps we were too late, when we found you." A set of small eyes peers down at you from behind a pair of thick round glasses. "Lucky for us, you survived," the man says. The bright light behind him reflects off his bald head like an orange halo. "A little worse for wear, though."

The truth of his statement seeps into your awareness. Everything hurts, but the worst of it is on your left side, a bone-deep ache reaching from your shoulder to your chest and ribs. You turn your heavy head and try to see what happened. 

Your shoulder got hit bad. You can't feel your fingers. When you look further down, there's bone and tattered flesh where your arm should be. You remember jagged rocks tearing into you, a trail of red in the snow, ice cold prickling against your neck. You remember falling.

A jolt of pain near your right wrist draws your attention and you look over to see a large needle piercing a vein in your forearm. It's rigged to a large assembly of tubes and bags and upside-down bottles, positioned next to your cot. Your heart thuds in your chest and you try to ask _What happened?_ but what comes from your lips is little more than a pained wheeze. 

"Don't worry," the man says, stroking his thumb across his chin. "When we wake you up again, you'll be good as new. Better."

The taste of metal floods the back of your throat as the yellow of the room fades. A small saw spins and stutters as it hits bone.

***

When you wake again, there's a strange tingle on your left, much less painful than the throbbing from before. You remember falling, a trail of red in the snow, and the sound of a saw. Three forms in white move around in the yellow haze, and for a moment you wonder if you made it into Heaven after all. You shouldn't have, you really shouldn't have.

"Ah, wonderful, you're awake," says the voice from before. "How do you feel?"

You try to answer, moving your leaden jaw, get as far as wetting your lips.

"It will seem strange at first, while the neural pathways are still forming, but in a few days it will feel like a part of you."

"What?" you ask, but the word has no strength behind it. No more volume than a breath of air. 

The drugged fog starts to fade and you shift your shoulders in the chair they've strapped you to. There's a needle in your right arm and your left…your left is shining silver. Confused, you lift your hands, trying to figure out if it's a trick of the light. The fingers on your right hand move as you make a fist, and the fingers on your left twitch before responding. There's a jolt of pain that travels up from the silver hand straight to your left shoulder and you flinch, biceps tensing in response. There's an odd noise--a whining whir like a servo-motor from inside the metal.

"What happened?" you ask, and this time your words are audible--chipped gravel over whiskey and cigarettes, but there. The shape of the words feel clumsy on your tongue. You speak the language, but it doesn't feel like yours. "Where--"

"Good questions, soldier. Very good questions." The bald man looks you in the eyes. He's wearing what look like welding goggles. You can see bits of yourself in the reflection--dark, bruised eyes, ashen skin. "We have a question for you also: Who are you?"

You open your mouth to respond, but find you can't. You don't know the answer. There's a name that flits through your thoughts, but it isn't yours, and a number. "107th," you say.

"One oh seventh, what?" asks the man.

"I--I don't know."

"That's okay. These things happen sometimes. The brain is such a delicate instrument." His mouth curves into a smile, flashing uneven tiles of teeth. "We will help you remember." 

"My arm…" It wasn't like that before. You're certain of that much at least. When you move your silver fingers, they respond more quickly, and you feel another spasm of pain travel up into your shoulder and through your chest. It gathers near your heart and your eyes clench shut as the pressure builds. It feels like someone's fist is squeezing your insides.

"Blood pressure rising. One thirty over ninety." Says a more distant voice. "One fifty over one ten."

"That's our cue. Turn on the calibrators." The small man stands straight and takes a step back.

"This will hurt also, but we need you conscious." He takes off his goggles and pulls his round glasses from the pocket of his lab coat. "My colleagues often forget that the mind is just as powerful a weapon as the body. I intend to make use of _all_ of you."

Your gut sinks and any doubt you had as to the intentions of your saviors vanishes. You pull against the restraints, testing their hold. You right arm doesn't budge, but your left--your left one pulls at the cuff around your upper arm until it detaches from the chair with a snick.

"Now," says the voice. 

There's a loud whining buzz by your head and something clamps down on your skull, pinning your head in place. You reach up, trying to stop the vice from closing. But your metal arm is too heavy, too slow. You smell ozone a moment before the discharge, and then fire floods your brain. You hear yourself screaming.

***


	2. Chapter 2

"Increase target speed by two hundred percent," a man's voice says from the intercom. 

The gun in your hand is small and a shape you're not familiar with. Your fingers remember a different angle, a different weight, and you could swear even the sound is wrong as you fire a shot, and another and another, each one hitting its mark.

But the smell of gunpowder is familiar, and as you pause to reload you hear, "How the Hell can you even see through this fog, Buck?"

The motor whirs as the targets move on past. The voice you'd heard stays quiet. You haven't fired in nearly six seconds. The unmarred target furthest to the left starts to retract and you pull the trigger, just grazing the edge. Without pausing, you aim for the other three. The shots are sloppy and off-center.

A buzzer sounds behind you.

***

The small man paces in front of where you're sitting. He doesn't look upset exactly, just disappointed. "You went somewhere else in there." 

"I'm not sure." You watch him pace until he stops.

He sits down next to you, turns his body to face yours and lowers his voice to a gentler pitch. "Are your memories resurfacing?"

"I heard a voice. I thought...thought I heard somebody calling me, but it wasn't my name."

"Hm." He pats his hand against your thigh. "This is not easy, but let me give you a piece of advice: Do not let the past haunt you. We have all made mistakes, but that does not mean we are doomed to repeat them." He bends down, looking you in the eyes. "You failed once. You nearly died, and many of your comrades did. You must learn again how to focus--how to shut out everything but the target. You know this, yes?"

"Yes," you say, tasting bitterness on your tongue.

"You waver, others die." He pushes himself to standing and pauses by the door. "Do not waver."

The door opens and shuts again. You nod, pushing down the rising storm of confusion and unfocused anger in your gut.

***

You don't miss again.

Target practice goes flawlessly the next day, and when they run you through your other drills you complete them all without complaint; bars and pulleys and needles and numbers. 

It's not just your body's capacities they test that day, they take a peek at your head too. You flinch when the cold metal closes around your temples, but the pain never comes, just a soft buzzing like a bee got stuck in your helmet.

"More activity here," says one of the men in the back.

"Nothing to worry about," says another.

They give you a chicken dinner and even though it's much better than bread and water, it lies heavy in your stomach. Something about the smell makes your heart clench, and you almost hear that voice again--the one that makes you think of tomato vines, the one that feels like home. You leave the last bite on your plate, staring at it, like that little piece of dead bird has the answers. But the shredded memory fades with the scent of the food and by the time you bring the last forkful to your lips, it's as cold as your room.

***

You're in a red room. There are four men surrounding you. None of them are armed. Neither are you.

They move as one unit, closing in on you in a shrinking circle, but the one to your left is slightly faster than the rest. He leaves an opening and you take it, drive a hard punch to his ribs that sends him hurtling back several feet. 

A fist flies at the side of your face but you block with your bicep, wrap your gleaming arm around his shoulder and force him down with a quick sweep of your leg. You bring him to the floor, pressing your knee into his back, but never let go of his arm. He twists, fights for leverage, but you are immovable. There's a snap as his shoulder pops out of place. He cries out. You release his bruised wrist and wrap your metal fingers around his neck.

"Soldier. Takedown only. Capture required," says a voice that you know, and your hand releases the man pinned beneath you. Eyes raised, you push yourself to standing and scan the room. The one whose ribs you shattered is still on the floor, and doesn't look like he has any intention of trying to get back up. The other two are hesitant—the one to your right swallows hard enough for you to hear. You watch him for another second, tracking a bead of sweat as it rolls down the side of his nose and turn your back on them both.

The third man finally makes a move, shoe scuffing on the rubber floor as he runs forward. You turn swiftly at the last second and kick straight back, striking him hard in the groin. He screams as he falls, and lands curled in on himself.

The last opponent is sweating profusely now. He has his arms raised in a defensive stance. You wait for him to move, but he doesn't. You pass by him, as though to walk away, then grab him from behind, squeezing your softer arm around his neck until his eyes begin to roll back into his head.

"Excellent work, soldier," says the voice. "Report to room 312."

***

They say you've had enough practice, and that you're ready to be trusted again.

People are your targets again. They're criminals and thieves, murderers and rapists, all of them worse than you ever were. Or so you're told.

Most of them never even see you. Your bullets are perfectly aimed. You prefer to shoot the forehead, right between the eyes, because the life goes out of them quickly that way, and it makes the deaths easiest to confirm without changing your position. But sometimes the side shots are just as fast and better suited to your angle. 

They give you better weapons. Sleek things, longer and more precise. You slip a glove over your metal hand for traction and your troop's commander says, "With that on, you look almost like a real boy." 

On the way back to your rendezvous point, you're ambushed—a group of five weary rebels that caught your scent somewhere along the Volga River. One of them is a kid — blond, gawky and lean with hunger. He aims a shaky gun at you, and the commander lands a bullet in his forehead. You watch the life flicker from the boy's eyes.

The commander's neck tendons snap like kindling under your fingers and you hold him there, waiting for the life to flicker from his eyes.

Something sharp pricks you in the back and the world goes dark.

***

Muffled voices and the throbbing in your brain wake you just enough to register how cold it is. As you lift your hands, your right knuckles graze cold metal, so cold that it burns your skin. You force your eyes open and find yourself looking out through a small, round window. Your breath fogs the glass, forming a spiderweb of ice as the moisture begins to freeze.

Two men are speaking outside. One of them is loud and angry. "—told you this would happen. He is dangerous." 

"So are our enemies," says a softer voice. The doctor walks into view, followed by a taller man in uniform.

"And if we can't control him, then we're handing them victory," says the general. "Are we not capable of fighting our own battles?"

You push your metal hand against the cold capsule door, silently testing its strength, but you're weak. If you weren't strapped tight, your knees would buckle.

"He has taken down every target we've assigned him, and he's done so without arousing suspicion," says the doctor. "He is an invaluable asset."

"One that turns on his masters."

"That has been corrected. We just had to…fine tune the recalibration. This time we made sure the wipe was as thorough as it could be and the memory implantations more complete."

"And here I thought that's what you did last time."

"The brain is not a simple machine!" the small man's voice grows louder, as he stands in front of your window, back turned to you. "He is only valuable because of his skills. We cannot risk eliminating everything, otherwise he's no better than the rest of your trained monkeys."

"Did you just insult my men?" 

"Perhaps the reason he turned on the commander is because he was a poor leader. My soldier needs an escort worthy of him." The doctor's arm reaches out towards you and there's a soft click somewhere down near your wrist. The small chamber fills with a fresh burst of cold air and your eyes freeze, wide open. You try to speak, tell him to stop, but your jaw is locked shut.

"Fine then. Next time we need him, _you_ will be his escort."

You shove your metal hand against the capsule-door, one last panicked attempt to get out, but you don't have nearly enough leverage or strength.

The ice becomes a fiery burn, and as your vision goes, you remember falling. 

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of this chapter is now also a comic! Go check it out [here on tumblr](http://howtheymakeyouaweapon.tumblr.com/post/93804107233/luckyraeve-how-they-make-you-a-weapon-shave)

Soft bristles tickle your nose. They smell like shaving soap. 

For a few seconds, your eyelids won't lift; they refuse to respond to your desire to see. When you do pry them open, there's a man sitting across from you. No...not a man—a reflection of one. You're sitting across from a large mirror. There are dark circles under your eyes and your skin looks paler than you think it should be.

A slim man is grooming you, drawing a straight razor carefully down your chin. The severed hairs fall onto a towel wrapped loosely around your neck.

He notices your eyes are open and freezes, slowly lifts his hand away, holding up the thin blade. "Almost done. Want me to trim the sides?" He strokes a finger along the bottom of his sideburns.

You don't answer. 

His smile fades and his hand quivers as he sets the razor down on the tray-table next to the mirror. He swallows. "We still need to cut your hair. I'll go get the scissors."

He carries his little metal tray to the door, which opens from the outside. There's an armed guard peering in from the hall. His eyes widen when he sees you. "Er ist wach?"

The door closes, and the light above the mirror dims, then begins to blink, slowly. The pattern is relaxing, and your head feels heavy. 

Music plays from somewhere behind you: Bach—a Cantata the doctor favors. He plays it often while he teaches you. The chords guide you back to your last set of lessons. It's important to remember what to do out in the battlefield, when there's no time to hesitate. This is a good time to practice.

There are two hundred and six bones in the human body. Thirty-two of them are ideal breaking points. The ulna, radius and humerus are all easy to twist apart. A broken knee will render most opponents unable to continue fighting. The collarbone only requires seven pounds of pressure to snap. A hard punch from your right arm can deliver over a thousand pounds of pressure per square inch, your left arm can generate three times that much. 

A soft hissing noise from your right is followed by a sickly sweet smell. Smoke filters into the room through a vent by the ceiling.

Your eyes fall shut.

There are two hundred and six bones in the human body. Thirty-two of them are ideal breaking points. The elbow is a valuable weapon, it can be used to break the nose, shatter a rib. Sleep pulls at you and you hear a voice calling a name. Maybe it's your name. Maybe it used to be.

You feel yourself falling.

A cool cloth makes your neck tingle. Your hair is wet and cold.

A glint of silver catches your eye. A knife. You reach out and grab your attacker's wrist, pushing down hard on his tendons. The knife clatters down to the floor as the bones in his forearm arm snap under your silver fingers. Ulna. Radius. Snap. Snap. 

He makes a keening sound and goes down on one knee. You slam your other hand into his nose, hard, and a burst of red gushes out, dripping down onto his blue coat, the stone floor, onto the knife. Knives. Scissors. A pair of scissors.

"Mein Gott!" shouts a voice from across the room.

You stand, stepping carefully over the puddle of blood, towards the armed man by the door. His eyes are wide and you don't know him. A dark stain spreads across his pants as he watches you approach. Not a threat. 

He reaches a shaking hand out towards a button by the door. 

You don't stop him.

The light turns red, an alarm sounds, and the vent spews more gas into the room.

***

"Welcome back."

The room around you comes slowly into focus. Your head throbs, and your veins feel heavy and leaden. 

"Three two five…" you say. The numbers are there, floating on the edge of your thoughts. They came to you in the darkness of your sleep before, shining like a beacon. You reach for them again, closing your eyes to see them better. 

"What was that, soldier?" asks the doctor.

"Three two five five seven zero three eight. Sergeant Barnes, Ja—."

"What do those numbers mean?"

"They're— they're my...my number, my--."

"They are nothing. _You_ are nothing." The man sighs from next to your bed. "And do you want to know why you're nothing?"

Confusion makes the throbbing in your head worse and when you try to sit up, you find you can't. Your wrists and ankles are restrained. Cuffed to the bed you're lying on with leather and chain. 

"You are nothing, because you don't know your purpose. But _I_ gave you one, I—" The doctor doesn't look well. His skin is tinged a sickly shade of green and his words are interrupted by coughing fits that make his eyes water. "These…cowards. They don't understand how important you are. How can they?"

With some effort, you crane your neck to the side, until you can see the mirror, and the makeshift barber's chair, surrounded by splotches of dried red-brown.

"They expect you to behave like an ordinary man. But there's nothing ordinary about you. Not anymore." He tugs on his collar, as though to loosen it. "You are the fist of Hydra." The doctor shrugs his shoulders, smiling sadly. "In war, there is always collateral damage. And we are, both of us, creatures of war." He brings his hand to his mouth as he coughs again, so hard it makes him double over. When he rights himself, his powder-blue bow tie is dotted with little speckles of red.

You wait for him to finish.

He pulls a small silver key out of his breast-pocket and undoes the small locks on your cuffs.

You sit up and slide back against the wall. The doctor sits down next to you. He looks exhausted.

"They were going to send me along with you, out on the field, you know." He smiles at that. "As punishment."

"For what?" you ask. 

"For insisting we give you another chance," the doctor says, sighing. "Of course, our wise leaders agree with me. Your record speaks for itself. Everything we've tasked you with, you've done. Thanks to you, we have eyes and ears in more cities than ever. You are the reason we thrive. And over these next few days, you will remind them of this."

There's an edge to his voice that makes you remember a chair and a vice around your head, the smell of manmade lightning.

"Don't worry," he says. "They won't decommission you. They don't have the authority."

Flashes of silver and blood flit across your brain. Someone tried to attack you and you stopped them. "I was defending myself. I didn't do anything wrong."

"No, you didn't. You were never in any danger. All you did was swat a fly." His eyes meet yours. "The problem is that in so doing, you made the others here doubt your loyalties." His face sours. "You failed us." 

There's a cold lump in your throat and you don't have an answer. Your memories of earlier are grey and muted, but you remember a knife, and blood and the scent of piss and fear. You betrayed them. Your own people. The ones that were counting on you.

The small man sighs and adjusts his glasses."You won't fail us again, will you?"

"No," you say, quick as you can.

"It's not often that men are given more than one second chance, soldier." The doctor smiles. "But I know that you will prove yourself more than worthy." He clasps his hand lightly over yours. "I believe in you."

You watch him struggle to stand and consider helping him for a moment. He leans against the wall, catching his breath, before looking back down at you. "Come with me."

The door opens, and you follow the doctor down the hall, trailed by a dozen men with guns. You don't have to look to know that they're all aimed at you.

At the end of the hall is a room full of shining metal and machines. Men in blue jackets guide you to the chair in the center and strap you in. No locks or chains, just belts of cloth. Your back arches as the hydraulics underneath you shift your body into position. 

The doctor leans down next to your ear. "Learn your mission. Complete your mission. Show them that my faith in you is not misplaced."

A black-haired woman wraps a cuff around your right arm. It inflates, tightening. She doesn't look at you, just your arm and the readings on her device. "BP one fifteen over seventy-six. Heart-rate at seventy-five and stable."

"Began calibration," says the doctor. 

An iron halo closes around your head and before you can protest, someone's forcing open your jaw. They shove a piece of leather in between your teeth just before the pain sears through you.

***

Your mission is successful.

Both targets are eliminated without the need for collateral damage or cleanup.

The doctor's smile greets you as soon as you enter the debriefing room, and only widens as you deliver your report. A heavily decorated general frowns and stays silent. The only acknowledgement he gives you is a grunt as he leaves the room.

"That was a thank you," the doctor says, chuckling. He walks you back down the hall, but stops along the way, succumbing to another heavy coughing fit. A spatter of blood from his spittle hits the wall. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and tries to wipe it off, but the rough grey walls don't lend themselves to being cleaned.

In the room at the end of the hall, your chair is waiting for you, as are the technicians who fine-tuned your arm before the mission. One of them examines it. The other examines you. 

"No damage incurred," says one, and then the other.

"Good." The doctor sits down across from you and slides a needle into your vein. "You've done well, soldier. You deserve a rest." 

You taste metal on your tongue and your head feels heavy. Hands grasp your arms and legs, but you're too tired to keep your eyes open. They bring you to a hard curved bed and cover you with a blanket of ice.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of this chapter is now also a comic! Go check it out [here on tumblr](http://howtheymakeyouaweapon.tumblr.com/post/93804107233/luckyraeve-how-they-make-you-a-weapon-shave)


	4. Chapter 4

The target is slow-moving, unaware he's in any danger at all. You take him down as he's climbing into his limousine. One bullet to the back of the head. The driver gets out, staring anxiously up at the roof of the main building. He doesn't see you, nor does the valet or the screaming woman on the sidewalk. You stay where you are, looking out through the basement window, until the ambulance comes, until they zip up the body-bag.

You deliver your report, note the method of execution, and the confirmation of death. You await further instructions, but they have none, so you walk back to the maintenance room.

The blue-coats inspect your arm thoroughly, opening access panels to check the circuitry underneath. They close you back up and one of them leaves. The other stays behind, polishing your shoulder to a high gleam. He takes a step back, looking at his handiwork and clicks his tongue, satisfied.

"Where is the doctor?" you ask, wondering why nobody's examined the rest of you. They always do. The doctor himself always double-checks your vitals.

"Why, something wrong?" the tech asks. 

"No."

Brow furrowed, the man walks across the room and presses a button on the intercom, mutters something into the phone attached to it. "He's on his way." He gives you a sloppy two-finger salute, and leaves the room.

Twenty minutes pass. 

The door opens and a man in a white coat enters. The wheels of the blood pressure monitor squeak as he rolls it close to your chair. He wraps the cuff over your upper arm and checks your heartbeat with his stethoscope. "Vitals normal." He straightens and undoes the cuff on your arm. "Did you sustain any injuries?"

"No." There's a prickle of anger brewing in your gut. "Where's the doctor?" you ask again. It's not a hard question. The doctor's always close.

"I'm the doctor," the white-coat says.

"No, you're not."

"Dr. Zola is dead," says a new voice from the door. An older man with a goatee enters. He's dressed in uniform: a general, high-ranking, Russian colors and pips though the cut is different than you remember. "He passed away ten years ago, while you were resting."

The doctor was sick, you remember that much. 

"He was very ill." The dark-haired man tilts his head to the side. "Does that trouble you?"

You consider the question and the expected response. "No."

"Recalibration sequence ready," says the white-coat, looking to the general for approval. "Should I charge the magnets?"

"Нет. His next mission is a related level four target. Current short term memory may be crucial." The general leans down and looks you in the eyes. "We have another mission for you tomorrow. Go to your room and await instructions."

***

After running through your second round of strength drills, dinner arrives. Three bottles of sweetened, chalky milk. You drink them and sit on your bed, waiting. The lights turn off. A slideshow begins a few seconds later, projected onto the wall across from you.

The first image is a target data-sheet. Ivan Petrovitch, age fifty-six, 110kg, 190cm. Photos of his face, a profile view, shots of him with a mustache, and one without. Skilled in hand-to-hand combat, bad left knee. 

The second, third and fourth slide show other incidentals you're authorized to take down. Photos, names, notable skills. None seem like they'll pose a challenge.

The last slide shows a list of Hydra agents to protect. Three of them will be present during your mission, on assignments of their own. They're reinforcements should you need them; you won't, but they're useful for clean-up.

The slideshow restarts.

Eyes on the projected images, you jump straight up and wrap your fingers around the wall-mounted bar next to your bed. Legs up, legs down, center straight, stomach tight. The projector replays the three slides again and again. You time your movements to the switching of images, shins to forehead just as the picture flicks from one to the next.

The projector shuts down some time later, but the lights stay off. You switch from leg raises to twists, bringing your knees to your left, your center, your right and back again. It's not easy to tire yourself out, but you sleep better when your body's exhausted. Tonight, you need sleep. At least three hours. 

Sleep used to be easier to come by, you think. 

Sweat trickles down your forehead, and the room feels warmer. If you keep going until your limbs start to shake, then you'll feel cold when you stop. Cold helps you sleep.

The front wall lights up again, and a movie starts to play: sorrowful music and narration blaring in through the speakers above you. 

"The world is diseased," says the voice, to the image of a broken city. "We live in a corpse filled with maggots and rot." The camera shows images of the dead. Bodies crushed and burned, draped across the rubble.

"There are those who would seek to break it further." The images shift to faces you know to be enemies. Men of power, men in costumes, wearing their countries' banners like armor.

"Nations grown fat with greed hide themselves behind their weapons, and their masked supermen." The image fills with white. A blizzard that gets stronger until it becomes one with the white wall of the room.

"They dwell in an endless summer, while here, we have nothing but our winter." 

A single figure stands in the center of the snowy field. A man, or a small tree. Far in the distance is Mount Narodnaya, you recognize its shape, though you're not sure why. 

"Winter was for a long time our enemy. It takes from us everything, and gives us nothing."

The music shifts and becomes gentler, more hopeful.

"But we have learned that it is also what makes us strong. We alone know how to endure it, we alone can harness its unforgiving strength."

The camera closes in on a black flag, decorated with the image of a red skull with six curved tentacles.

"Be like our winter. Wait out our enemies, isolate them, end them with silence. Be inevitable and merciless."

You drop to the floor as the movie reel finishes, and begin doing push-ups. Sweat trickles down your forehead, and drips onto the grey floor. You're still not tired.

"The world is diseased," says the voice, to the image of a broken city.

***

Your target escapes. He escapes because of unexpected interference. Someone else is hunting him. You see her once in the ballroom of the opera house, and again when your target falls dead while you're lining up your scope.

She took your mission from you. You're furious, and spend the rest of the night following her. 

You can't deliver a proper report now. The target is dead, but you don't know by whose hand.

It's difficult to track her, but not impossible. She fades and hides the way you do, but you still see her, flitting along in the shadows; her red hair shines when she passes under a lamp, a lit match in the night. 

Her movements become rushed and panicked, she knows you're tailing her. You follow her for over half an hour, keeping your distance. When she makes a run for it across Arbat Street, you take to the roofs, let her think she's lost you.

She delivers her report by phone, in her small, dimly lit motel room, and takes a shower. The window in the bathroom is barely the size of your hand.

The larger kitchen window slides open quietly and you slip inside. The weight of you makes the floorboards creak. You pause, wait for a reaction—but the water doesn't turn off. The woman's quiet singing continues uninterrupted.

There's a chair across from the bathroom door, next to a small table. You sit, set your sidearm down next to you, in clear view, and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> 
> [* propaganda narration inspired by Vasily Karpov](http://marvel.wikia.com/Captain_America_Vol_5_5)  
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	5. Chapter 5

The water shuts off. Seconds later, the door opens and steam billows out, settling like fog in the small bedroom. The woman from the opera house is wrapped in a towel. Her hair is darker auburn now that it's wet; her skin is flushed from the heat of the water, the cold air of the room. She walks right to the bed, doesn't spare a glance for you or your gun. She lifts her towel up to dry her hair, keeps her back turned to you as she dresses. When she turns around, the black of her bra shows through her pale undershirt. 

You watch her eyes for pupil dilation, her throat for rapid swallows. She isn't nearly as nervous as she should be. 

She crosses the room, stands across from you, hand resting lightly on the table. A drop of water drips from a strand of her hair and lands near your arm. You smell cinnamon. 

Her mouth curves into a smile as she steps closer. "When I said I liked the thrill of the chase, this wasn't really what I had in mind." Her fingertips nudge your gun across the table. Out of sight, not out of reach. She straddles you, wraps her arms slowly around your neck and leans in close. "It's been years, you son of a bitch," she whispers into your ear. "Where were you?" 

For a moment, you wonder if this is more than a blatant attempt at distraction. She sounds genuine, and bizarrely, she seems…almost happy to see you. Her teeth graze your neck and her breath feels hot against your skin.

"Ivan Petrovitch was my target," you say. "Who sent you?"

She pulls back and watches you curiously, like she's waiting for something.

Her hand hasn't moved towards your gun, and her pulse is steady. Either she really isn't afraid of you or she's remarkably good at hiding her intentions. 

"Who sent you?" you ask again.

She brings a fingertip to your lips, and smiles as she shifts her hips, pressing her body against yours. Gently, like she's afraid she'll spook you, she traces her fingers up to your cheek, leans forward and kisses you.

You bring your right hand under her shirt to the small of her back, feel her damp skin. The scent of her is distressingly familiar. In the back of your brain there's a film-reel playing. It's charred and torn, missing everything but a few bright moments. Her proud smile, her foot crashing into your chest, her laugh as the two of you tumble onto a bed. Her hair smells like cinnamon, and you remember kissing her—remember her on top of you, remember her moaning as a train whistle sounds. Memories—disjointed and incomplete. You can't place them; you can't place her. 

The cool barrel of a gun pushes against the side of your head.

"Nobody sent me," she says, pulling away. Her eyes hold none of the warmth they did before. "I heard you were around. Felt like saying hi."

It would be easy to throw her off and take the gun, but you're just as tempted to wrap your silver fingers around her throat. You do neither. "This is how you say hi?"

She cocks her head to the side, smiles sadly. "Safer this way. Especially when I don't know who's going to answer." Finally, there's a hint of the fear you expected, mixed with something else: hope, or maybe disappointment. She knew you once, or thinks she did.

You slide your hand down to her hip. "Who are you?"

"Who are _you?"_

The question should be easy to answer. But it isn't. 

Her face shifts—a flicker of pity before her eyes go cold. The memory of her rattles in your head, trapped in an echo chamber. Her scent, the feel of her skin, her teeth against your throat, your lips on hers. You knew her, but you don't know her name. You don't know your name. You don't have a name. You can't answer her question. 

It makes you angry. 

She notices, but not quickly enough. You shove your metal shoulder into her, hard enough to knock her off balance. She catches herself quickly, rolling into a crouch, gun aimed directly at your head.

You stand but stay where you are—arms down, vulnerable, an easy target. Your mission was a failure. When you deliver your report, you won't have an answer. You don't know her name. "Who are you?" you ask again. 

"Doesn't matter." She swallows, eyes glassy. "They'll know you saw me, and you won't remember."

The mission was a failure. Of course they know. There were others at the opera-house and they've surely delivered their reports by now. Your mouth goes dry, and fury clenches in your chest. You don't fail. You _can't_ fail.

"Why did you kill Ivan Petrovitch?" you ask one last time, as you lower your hand to your belt, fingers hovering over the hilt of your small knife.

She opens her mouth, anger flashing across her features for little more than a second, but she catches herself, takes a deep breath. "I had my reasons."

Without breaking eye contact, you draw your arm back and let the blade fly. It grazes her shoulder, just barely, as she lunges behind the bed.

Metal arm bent slightly, you take a step towards her, ready to block if she decides to shoot you.

But when she reappears, she isn't holding your gun. She's wearing two large brown cuffs on her forearms. Without meeting your eyes, she flicks her wrist straight out. 

Something small and round hurtles towards you, but you dodge it easily. It lands two feet away—a small silver ball, the size of an marble. There's a soft hiss and it cracks open, right down the middle. A purple-pink haze spills out of it, and the air smells sickly-sweet. You dash forwards, headed for the bed, headed for your gun, for the woman who brings her hand to her left wrist and squeezes. A slim projectile shoots out of the cuff. You dodge, but not far enough. It hits you in the thigh and burns going in.

Yellow tints your vision and your jaw locks up, your legs give out. The warped floor rushes up to meet you.

With the last of your strength you push yourself up with your left arm. The room spins as you turn your head, just in time to see the woman's legs disappear out the window.

***

When you wake up, the sun is high in the sky. The curtain billows in and out and the noise of the people below drifts up to you. Your gun is peeking out from under the bed, and your knife is stuck to the table, piercing a small piece of paper. The pressure in your head is unpleasant, and only gets worse when you stand. You holster your gun, retrieve your knife and read the note, printed in neat letters. Two words: "Красная Комната." _Red Room._

The pressure in your head grows and you bite back a wince as you pull the dart out of your thigh. It's tip is long, thin and barbed; it sinks teeth into your flesh as you pull it out. 

_"Spider bites,"_ she whispers in your mind. _"Always hurt more the morning after."_

You slam your left hand against the wall in anger, leaving a sizable dent.

***

"Why didn't you report back after your mission failed?" the captain asks for the third time. 

You give him the same answer again: "I was in pursuit of the shooter."

"But you don't have a good enough visual to share with us."

"It was dark."

"According to our rather extensive records, you've taken out targets in extremely low-light environments over a dozen times." The man stands, pacing the short length of the room. A trickle of sweat runs down his brow. He's nervous. "How did you lose track of the shooter?"

"They knew the territory."

"So do you!" snarls the captain.

The door opens, and the general enters. _"Enough, капитан."_

The captain stands at attention and salutes. 

"Failure or not, Ivan Petrovitch is dead," says the general, addressing you. "We have another assignment for you. Report to the maintenance room for treatment."

You stand and walk to the door. The captain glares at you as you pass.

***

The maintenance room has three men in lab-coats. One of them inspects your arm, another takes your vitals, while the third checks things off on a clipboard.

"How long?" asks the general from the door. The man studying your arm stiffens at the question and raises his head. "Three minutes, sir."

The general walks closer, arms folded behind his back and comes to stand across from you. "Full recording before deletion." 

"Yes, sir," says the technician.

"Where did this come from?" The general asks, pressing a finger against your thigh, less than a centimeter from the dart wound. 

"A poison dart."

"Yes, you stated that in your report." He frowns. "The shooter got close enough to you to do this but you didn't see their face?"

You stay silent, remembering the scent of cinnamon, and her smile. You focus on those two things, make them solid, carve them into marble so they won't fade away. There's a lockbox in the back of your mind—rusted iron and painted pale blue. You unlock it, add the woman's smile and the smell of her hair to everything else inside that little box: the scent of tomato vines, the crooked but perfect yellow house, the memory of a man's voice—he calls you _Buck_ and he sounds like home, and _oh_ how you wish that name belonged to you. 

With as much force of will as you can muster, you slam shut the lid of the box. Only then do you meet the general's eyes. "No, I didn't."

Two of the lab-coats move to your side and strap you to the chair. You know what's coming, and brace for the feel of cold metal against your head, the inevitable pain about to arc through your brain. You know what's coming, and you clench your eyes shut. You focus on snow, on the cold of ice, of the feeling you have when you hit your mark. You don't think about the lockbox, or what's inside.

The metal vice closes around your head and your heart thuds in your chest, but the expected pain doesn't come. Instead there's a prick in your forearm, the sting of a needle. Something warm floods your veins and your face goes slack. Pentothal. You try to think of snow, of ice, but you can't. Your thoughts drift, free-floating and you feel yourself unspooling.

"Who was the shooter?" the general asks.

"I don't know," you hear yourself say from the other end of a long tunnel. "A woman."

"What did she look like?"

"Beautiful. Red hair. Moved like a dancer."

"Did she recognize you?"

"Yes."

"What did she tell you?" 

They pull the words out of you like fishermen, reeling in one detail after another. "Red room," you finish, and you smell cinnamon. The pain arcs across your temples and you scream yourself empty.

***

Your targets are enemies of the general, enemies of Hydra. Politicians, dictators, dignitaries. Men of war, men of peace. Priests and predators. Who they are doesn't matter in the end. They're easy to find, easy to isolate, and easy to kill.

You move silently and aim true.

No one sees you, because you don't exist. You're no longer a man, you are intent made flesh, the bullet in a gun, the garotte around a slender throat. You kill because you kill. And when those memories of home and tomato vines, of soft skin and cinnamon hair threaten to resurface, you bury them deep in a endless field of white. Because they don't belong to you. They never did.

After you take down your targets, you rest. Your bed is a metal capsule, and ice is your blanket, and you know what it is to be winter.

Your dreams are as empty as your little white room.

***

Strong gusts of wind scatter sand in the air, against your goggles, leaving grains behind on your sweaty skin. You take shelter behind an outcropping of rock and pull your goggles up just in time to see the jeep climb over the hill. 

Your target is inside. You can feel it, even before you see him and his escort. You line up your rifle scope, and watch the vehicle start to decelerate as it approaches. There's a hairpin turn straight ahead. You take out the left front tire first, then the rear. The driver tries to compensate, but they're too close to the cliff, still moving too fast. 

Metal screeches as the thinned tires scrape against the stone road. You leave your hiding spot and walk towards them, rifle at the ready, in case they jump out of the car. 

They don't. 

The jeep careens over the edge; metal clatters and thunks as it hits the ground below. It's a forty foot drop down the gorge, maybe forty-five. You holster your rifle and jump straight down, landing a few meters away from the overturned vehicle. It's lying on its side, crumpled but mostly intact.

Handgun at the ready, you watch the wreckage. A woman's head peeks out of the driver's side window for less than a second before withdrawing again. You target the fuel tank and fire. Liquid dribbles out onto the sand below. 

With a loud thump, the driver's side door flies open. Moments later, the woman pushes herself up, sitting on the doorframe. She doesn't spare you another glance, but reaches down and drags an older man, _the nuclear engineer, your target_ , out of the jeep with her.

They slide down the front of the car, clumsily. She tries to help him stand but he's too unsteady. They only make it a few steps before he falls to his knees. Her shoulders hitch and she turns to look at you over her shoulder. 

You lower your gun, wait for her next move.

She turns slowly, putting herself between you and your target. The engineer's shoulders are slumped against her hips. 

"Stop," she says, hands held up, palms open. A trickle of blood runs down her wrist from a gash in her right hand. Her sidearm is in clear view, but she hasn't made a move for it yet. "Don't do this."

You raise your gun. The target's head is directly behind her stomach.

"No!" she snarls, and now she reaches for her sidearm.

You take aim and shoot. The armor piercing round slices through her side hitting her intestines or kidney, possibly both. Her face distorts in pain and shock and for a moment you see betrayal flash across her face—directed at you or the frailty of her own body. It doesn't matter. Behind her, the engineer slumps to the ground, one neat hole between his eyes. 

She fires two shots: one grazes your shoulder, the other misses you entirely. You move closer, gun drawn. The engineer may have been carrying notes, and if he was, you're required to bring them back. 

"Help," says the woman when you pause in front of her. There's blood running through her fingers, and her skin looks waxy and white, lips rose-red slick. " _Please_. Пожалуйста, Зимний." Her voice is paper-thin, and she falls silent with a push from your boot, right on her wound. Her eyes stay open and you watch her life start to flicker away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter contains induced sleep paralysis, hallucinations and graphic body horror

***

You hand over the recovered notes and deliver your report succinctly: "Targets eliminated. Minor damage incurred."

"Tell the maintenance team about your injuries, not us," says the Lieutenant.

When no further instructions come, you turn on your heel and leave the debriefing room. Your boots are dry now. They were tacky with blood and sand for a few minutes after you were extracted. You'd smudged the charcoal grey floor of the helicopter, left behind red dots from your boot-soles, pellets of cherry colored sand.

"Minor damage incurred," you repeat as you enter the maintenance room.

"Where?" asks the man with the ponytail. He's new, as is his set of spotless blue scrubs.

"Right lateral deltoid." You don't rely on your memory much these days when it comes to navigating your handlers, but you can read human behavior. You're exceptionally well versed in it. This man isn't comfortable with your room, and even less comfortable with you. He's perspiring, faint tremors run through his hands and he smiles too often, a nervous habit. You imagine little speckles of blood-stained sand dotting him. They'd look brighter on the pale blue of his coat than on the floor of the helicopter.

"Sit," he says, nodding towards your chair.

You sit, and count the guards at the door, the lights on the ceiling, and the gadgets in the room, while he inspects your right shoulder. There are ten machines altogether—that you can see—not counting your chair. A tall glass assembly you don't think you've seen before sits to your right. There are multi-colored vials inside: little ampoules of red and green and blue.

The man with the ponytail makes a humming noise as he runs an iodine soaked cotton square over the wound in your shoulder. "Already healing. No point in putting stitches in." He sets the cotton square down on the tray to his left. "I'll go get your bed ready."

You have two beds. A cot in a little white room where you lay down and stare at the ceiling, and a box you stand in that turns you to ice. You fall asleep better standing up—instant and dreamless.

Ponytail heads toward the computer terminal in the back of the room, but freezes mid-step, shoulders hitched, when the intercom speaks, _"Begin cryo-prep. Technician on the way."_ His shoulders sink back down. "Right, tech needs to check your prosthetic first."

The man in the scrubs walks over to the slim glass tower of ampoules and wheels it towards your chair. He grabs a peripheral venous catheter, wraps a band around your biceps and flicks his finger against your forearm, waiting for your veins to rise. The needle slides into your vein, and Mr. Ponytail tapes the tube to your arm and pulls off the rubber strip. He brings a metal cuff up around your wrist, and then another larger one around your upper arm; they're part of the chair—mounted onto its frame. As he moves to your left side and cuffs your metal arm, you flex your fingers, listening to the whisper-quiet pistons inside. They used to be louder, you think.

Yellow and blue ampules shift inside the glass tower, sliding up through a grooved track until they click into place at the top, lined up with output holes. The tube in your arm connects to a funnel, mounted underneath the output ports on the tower.

A tech in mint green scrubs walks in; the guards step aside to let him through. He drags a rolling chair to your left side, leaning over to inspect every inch of your metal arm.

"There's debris," he says to Ponytail. "I'll need five minutes, maybe ten."

"Okay, I'll start the sedative." Ponytail brings his hand up to the buttons on the glass medication dispenser.

"Delay that," says another voice from the direction of the door, one you recognize: Alexander Pierce.

"Sir?" asks Ponytail, lowering his hand.

"I want a word, first," Pierce says. He waves his hand towards the tech and then again at Ponytail. The two men clear the room. The guards don't.

Pierce walks closer until he's standing less than a foot from your chair, grabs the rolling stool from your left and sits on it, so he's nearly at eye-level with you.

You flex your fingers again, left hand, then right. Your knuckles crack, audibly.

"I wanted to thank you in person for what you did today. The notes you obtained are going to be…very helpful" Pierce's lips quirk. "Did you encounter any unexpected difficulties on this mission? Any outside interference?"

"No," you say. "Sir." It's what you're supposed to say—how you're supposed to address him.

"Interesting." His smile vanishes, mouth thin. "When we extracted you there were two bodies. Your two targets." He brings his thumb to his chin, traces the edge of his jaw. "But when our second helicopter arrived, there was only one body." He looks at you, eyes narrowed, like he expects a response.

You have none.

"Why did you let Romanoff live?"

 _Romanoff. A slice in your shoulder, a burn in your thigh, the scent of cinnamon. Красная Комната. There's blood running through her fingers, and her skin looks waxy and white, lips rose-red slick._ "I didn't."

"You _did_ ," Pierce growls. He stands. "That woman is a traitor. She's extremely dangerous, and now she's more of a liability than she was before. She's _seen_ you." His eyes flick to the darkened glass window to your right and then back to you. "Normally, I do you the courtesy of helping you forget, but not this time. This kind of failure is unacceptable. You won't remember the details of this mission, but you'll remember her, and how you failed us. And the next time you see her, you _will_ take her down, is that clear?"

There's static from the intercom. "Sir, the cryo-tank is ready. Prepare for recalibration?"

Sir watches you for another beat. "Begin sedation." He turns and leaves the room, the two men in scrubs come back. A push of the button on the glass tower sends a cocktail of drugs into your bloodstream. Your eyelids feel heavy. The tech prods at your left arm with a small waterpik, cleaning away every last grain of sand. You wonder if any of them are red. The metal ring closes around your temples, and the agony spiking through your skull keeps you conscious, keeps you screaming, even as the drugs try to pull you further under.

It's not until they've taken away everything precious to them that the lightning cuts off and you fall into a half-sleep, only distantly aware of them maneuvering your dead limbs.

 _There's blood running through her fingers, and her skin looks waxy and white, lips rose-red slick. "Please. Пожалуйста, Зимний." Her life starts to flicker away,_ and you reach out for her, but your fingertips find only ice-cold steel.

***

Images flicker through your brain as you awaken—photos projected directly into your visual cortex. A list of targets, three of them level six: _Fury, Nicholas J. Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. : highly skilled in armed and unarmed combat, current Director of S.H.I.E.L.D, full access to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s highly advanced armory. Weapons may include but are not limited to a 300 round .15 caliber pistol with explosive-tipped needles, plasma pistols, .30 caliber machine pistol standard issue,..._

You hear someone typing behind you, click click clicking somewhere very close to your head. It takes you a moment to remind yourself that it's a computer keyboard, not a typewriter. People don't use those anymore.

The metal clamps around your head open and retract, giving you a clear view of the room. It's familiar, as the room always is. Sometimes the color of the walls changes, or the shapes of the machines. You count fifteen machines total, four you don't recognize, three small gun barrels mounted on top of cameras that restlessly scan the room, and two maintenance technicians. One behind you, still typing, the other inspecting your arm. His hair is bound in a low ponytail.

Though you have no memory of him, he clearly remembers you. His shoulder flinches when you shift in your seat. He stands, nearly stumbling backwards in his hurry to get away. 

"We need to keep it sedated. Pierce wants us to try the X07," says the man by your head.

"Doctor Rider said the X07 was untested," says Ponytail.

"Guess this is the test," says the voice from the back. "From what I hear...this stuff is the real deal—near instant healing, strength and speed boost."

Ponytail scoffs and joins his friend in the back, lowers his voice. "And they want to test it on this guy?"

"Starting pre-treatment sedation drip," says the other, and then more quietly. "Why wouldn't they? Not like it's gonna complain."

There's a tall glass cylinder next to your right arm, filled with a rainbow of vials. You think maybe it used to have corners. A yellow tube slides up the center of the cylinder where it's grabbed by a small pair of pincers that moves along a grooved track to the very top, where a small thin clamp closes around the glass and twists it open. The liquid pours into a funnel, runs into a tube and down into your vein. You look at the needle there, trying to remember when they slid it in. It doesn't ache, but you know they take it out before you go to sleep.

"Have you seen the footage from Madripoor?" Ponytail hisses. "This dude is already scary as fuck. And if the rumors are true, then he's gone AWOL before, and now we're gonna _upgrade_ him. Doesn't that seem like an exceptionally bad plan to you?"

"Quit worrying," says the other. "Or you wanna go tell Secretary Pierce your personal opinion?"

The small metal clamp removes the emptied vial and drops it down a chute in the center of the cylinder, then opens the next yellow vial. The process repeats again and again. You taste bitterness on the back of your tongue and feel your thoughts start to stutter. _Not standard protocol_ , you think. They don't usually wake you just to put you under again.

"Heart rate at fifty-five," says the man at the computer console.

"Wait until it hits forty-five and then start the X07," says a voice from the intercom. "I'll be observing the procedure."

The clicking of the keyboard stops, and the door slides open with a hiss, making the room waver before it settles again. Two men enter—one in a lab-coat with thick black hair and glasses, and another older man wearing a suit and an empty expression. The doctor—you remember that much, remember him working the heavy metal vice they stick your head in before they empty your brain—moves to the back of the room. The older man stops in front of your chair. You remember him, too. They don't let you forget him, remind you every time you wake up. Secretary Alexander Pierce. One of three men you're to protect at all costs.

"Sir?" asks Ponytail.

"I've heard great things about this new batch." Pierce leans down and smiles at you. His face trails after his head and settles, lopsided on his skin. "You're a lucky man. Only one other human has had a chance to try this little bit of modern magic." His mouth twists in on itself. "Didn't work out too well for him, but then, he had issues to begin with."

"Ready at your word, Sir," says the man behind you. "But, per protocol, you need to head into the observation room before we administer any untested compounds."

Pierce nods, eyes flicking up to the darkened pane of glass to your left. The cameras above the glass turn slightly, little red dots lining up with your chair. "I want a look at the prosthesis upgrade first." He walks over to your left and leans down over your arm, running his fingertips across the gleaming metal. It looks different than you remember. More articulated in spots where it used to be smooth. "We paid good money for this," he says, tapping your elbow. "Just wait until we turn on all the new goodies inside."

"Heart rate at forty-five, sir," says Ponytail. The light from the cameras looks like it's about to drip down onto the floor, slow and heavy like wax. Next to you, the cylinder comes to life as more ampoules slot into place and crack open. You can feel it the moment the new drug hits your system. It feels like acid in your veins and your limbs stiffen, tighten against your will.

"Interesting state of mind isn't it?" asks Pierce. "X07 integrates best during artificially induced sleep paralysis." He straightens, gives you a wink. "Sweet dreams."

He turns to head for the door, but the doctor intercepts him, hand grabbing him by the elbow, sinking through the elbow. "Sir, with all due respect: I have to advise against this course of action. In my opinion, the X07 is—"

"I'm not interested in your opinion. Doctor Zola says the asset is an ideal candidate for this compound and I believe him."

The red lights from the cameras dance around like fireflies.

The doctor's voice is thick with derision. "You trust that— that simulation, over me?"

Pierce scoffs. "Yes. He's helped make us who we are today. This room, that chair, that marvelous weapon, none of it would be here if it wasn't for him. Now, are you going to administer the higher dosage, or do I need to have you replaced?"

The doctor bristles, so much that you can see his words tint green. "No, Sir."

Satisfied, Pierce leaves the room. The doctor stands next to your left arm, and nods to the man on your right. "Begin X07 injections. Fifty ccs over five minutes."

"BP One thirty over ninety," says a voice. "10ccs," says another. The chair shifts underneath you and the ceiling shifts above you, until you're staring straight up at a block of light in the ceiling. It looks like sunlight. The pale kind before a rainstorm. You can even smell the clouds, heavy and full.

The light above you is sunlight, and you're lying on the ground. It's uneven and uncomfortable, made of lumpy rocks, cobblestone. You push yourself to your feet and try to get your bearings.

There are people nearby. And they're fighting. A fist smacks skin, a body hits the wall. You put your hand against the wall of the alley, unsteady, and try to keep yourself from falling. It's hard to keep your eyes open, and your head feels like you drank your way through two bottles of whiskey. Your head lolls down as you push forward and you see that you're wearing a uniform. It's clean and brown and you remember _107th_ with a swell of pride mixed with fear.

When you turn the corner, the noise of the fight cuts off. There's only one man in the alley, small and rail-thin, and when he turns around, your heart clenches in your chest.

He's smiling despite the bruise on his cheek, the shiner he's sporting under his eye. His smile relaxes you and you remember him laughing, you remember laughing with him. He's your friend—you don't remember his name, but you know he's your friend. The closest thing to a brother you ever had.

You reach out your left hand, pat him on the shoulder. Your hand is flesh and blood and bone, just like he is, and you feel him relax into your touch. _"Thanks Buck,"_ he says. His smile widens and the bruise on his cheek melts into his skin, and the dark purpling bump under his eye disappears like it was never there. He stretches his neck to one side and then the other, and you hear bones creak as he _grows_. His shoulders grow wider, your grip loosens as his bones are covered by thick muscle. "But I don't need you anymore." His smile fades and his mouth goes grim.

  
_"Activate new prosthesis modules."_

_"Activating."_

  
He wraps his hand around your forearm; your bones crunch under his inhumanly strong grip, forcing you to your knees. "Maybe I never did," he says. His calm words ring out clearly despite your pained screams. He grabs hold of your upper arm and twists, pulling on the mangled limb like he means to tear it off. The pain is excruciating, and for a moment you see nothing but white noise. When the alleyway flickers back into focus you force yourself to look at your arm. There's nothing left but a bloody stump, barely covered by what's left of your torn uniform-sleeve. You look up at him, at the pristine white t-shirt pulled tight across his massive chest. He's clean, untouched by the damage, _just like always, like he has to be._ Blood soaks through the shoulder of your jacket, gushes down onto the wet cobblestone, running along the cracks until it soaks into the knees of your pants.

There's a whole new pain in what remains of your left arm and you stare down, recoiling as something long slim and silver wriggles out of the stump and wraps itself around your frayed skin. It's cold, and solid and _heavy_ and it grows larger and thicker, until your arm is whole again— but it isn't yours, it isn't you.

"Of course it's you," says your friend. "That's what's underneath your skin. It's always been there."

"No," you say, as you try to push yourself to your feet with your one good hand. The pool of blood on the ground soaks into your skin, staining your fingertips cherry-red. "No, they— they did this to me."

His mouth twists into a snarl and he grabs your suit lapels, yanks you the rest of the way up and slams you against the alley wall. "Only because you let them." He frowns down at you, pulls at your jacket. The fabric comes apart like tissue paper, brass buttons raining onto the ground below.

_"Thirty ccs, BP one sixty over one hundred."_

The air in the alleyway feels cold against your bare skin. Not even your undershirt remains. The ugly mottled metal growth on your left is spreading, flowing further up your shoulder and deep under your skin, but the man across from you doesn't seem to notice, or care. "It's not— not my fault," you tell him.

"That right?" he says, and for a second you think you know his name. It's on the tip of your tongue and you try to force it out, but your tongue won't move. It lies leaden in your mouth, as heavy as your arm. You bring your right hand up to your face, touch your cheek and feel metal under your fingertips. It's spreading—skin flaking away where you touch—your face, your throat, and by the time you bring your right hand back down, the tips of your fingers are dark grey.

"You always were a little too good at following orders," he says. "Easier than trying to think for yourself. Do you even know how to do that anymore?"

With every bit of strength you have left, you force yourself to make a sound, don't care if it's a scream or a grunt, something, anything as long as you can prove to him that you're not what he thinks. But all that comes out is the quiet hiss of pistons, the hum of hydraulics as your jaw opens and shuts.

_"Increase delivery rate by 400 percent."_

_"Sir?"_

_"Let's see how how much he can take."_

_"This high a dosage is highly inadvisable and unnecessary. The asset's abilities are already comparable to—"_

_"Comparable isn't going to help us win. Superior is. Increase the delivery rate. Now."_

Lightning flares in the back of your head and it runs down your spine, skitters through your veins, pooling in your fingertips and toes. The pain is excruciating, but your jaw is too heavy to move. You keel forward, fall against the man across from you, clutching at his clean shirt with your bloodied fingers. He grabs you by the wrists, more gently this time, lowers you down to the ground until you let go of him. His shirt is stained where you grabbed at it—bloody handprint like a crooked red star.

_"One-hundred sixty ccs. BP one eighty over one twenty."_

_"Sir, I'd like it on record that I advised against this."_

_"Don't worry, it will be."_

_"We know how the X07 will affect his body, but we have no idea how it will affect his mind, especially given his conditioning. He's not a machine."_

_"Sure looks like one to me."_

 

Your right hand tingles. Your fingers are blotched with red and grey. Your forearm is pulsing, undulating as newly grown metal muscle winds itself through the meat you once were, consuming it. It grows thick and corded, stretches your skin until it's paper thin, then bursts through. Your dermal layer drifts to the cobblestone ground in dried up strips—bits of human snakeskin.

 

_"Two-hundred forty ccs. BP two hundred over one forty. Paralytic agent fully metabolized. Automatic shutdown."_

_"Longer than I expected."_

_"If he turns on us...if he injures any of our men—"_

_"Then you follow protocol, bring him back in line."_

_"And if we can't?"_

_"Then put him down, and we will start over. He's past his shelf life anyway."_

The pain stops. Cuts off like it was never there.

As you push yourself back up to your knees, your eyes start to itch. Little white spots dot the ground as your sclerae liquefy, drip out of your sockets. But you can still see. You see more than you ever have.

_"Restart mission upload."_

When you look back up at the man, you recognize one of Hydra's enemies, Steve Rogers, aka Captain America. You don't see the color of his hair, or his eyes. You can't read his expression, don't know if he's smiling or frowning, nor do you care. What your new eyes show you is all you need to know: temperature readings, statistics, weapons, mass, known combat techniques, weak spots, threat level. Captain Rogers is a level six threat. Eliminate at all costs. He's as strong as they come. But so are you.

You rise to your feet, and use your inhuman speed to grab hold of Rogers' throat before he can stop you. Your fingers push in deep, wrap around the tendons on the left side of his neck and yank back. Blood bursts out of him, spilling down his clean white shirt. The crooked red star becomes a skull atop six curled tentacles.

You pull your arm back to deliver a blow to his jaw but someone grabs your arm, tries to stop you. You fling them off—and they clatter into something metal—a trash bin further down the alley.

A voice comes over the intercom. _Sir's_ voice. "Sedate him. Now." At his words, the alleyway fades off the surface of reality until all that's left is the maintenance room.

The lab tech with the ponytail lies dead at your feet, throat torn open—his white lab coat soaked with blood. Your skin is stained red, your hands drip with it, one metal one that looks like flesh. But you know what you are underneath now, know that you don't need to fear the cluster of red lights on your chest, don't even need to dodge as the guns mounted to the cameras open fire.

The bullets are thinner than expected, and there's fewer of them. They bury themselves halfway in your chest and your skin-covered fingers tell you they're darts, not bullets.

***

Images flicker through your brain as you awaken—photos projected directly into your visual cortex. A list of targets, three of them level six: _Fury, Nicholas J. Director of Shield: highly skilled in armed and unarmed combat, current Director of S.H.I.E.L.D, full access to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s highly advanced armory. Weapons may include but are not limited to..._

 


	7. Chapter 7

The armored car careens down the street, propelled by the explosion. You step aside, letting it slide past. Metal scrapes and screams against the road, sending up plumes of black smoke. The heat from the burning fuel warms your legs and thins the air coming in through your mask. You breathe more slowly, tasting the acrid scent on your tongue. There's a primal thrill in your gut, because that smell means victory, or it did once.

 _"Nice shot, Buck,"_ says a voice from your lockbox. It's muffled, distorted and tattered like the box itself, but you still hear it.

It only takes a few seconds for the ruined hulk of steel to slide to a halt. You walk towards it, no need to expend energy when your target is so thoroughly trapped. Patience is one of your strengths, not just when lining up your sight, or timing your shot, but in the chase itself. People run when they know they're being hunted, they wear themselves down trying to escape. And when they can't run—when they're caught, like this one is—that primal need to flee mixed with the inability to do so _paralyzes_ them. It makes them much easier to kill. And with a target as dangerous as this one, you'll take every advantage you can give yourself.

You pull the bullet-riddled door off the SUV and peer inside the warped frame, firearm at the ready.

There's a hole burned into the ground; the asphalt glows in a jagged square, just wide enough for a man to slip through. He was trapped. But he burrowed himself a way out.

Confusion gives way to anger, and rage is close on its heels. Your targets don't escape. You don't fail. You can't fail.

You follow your target down through the tunnels beneath the city. There's no need to tell your backup team where you've gone. They can track you—little chips wedged under your skin and embedded in your newly reinforced arm.

Fury, Nicholas J. runs and you let him. You can hear his exhausted gasps for air as he scrambles up an access ladder. You trail him from one compromised safe house to the next, to the next. Your team knows where he's going the first two times, but loses track of him and you on the way to the last location. The air is thick with static, you can feel it in your arm, tickling like goosebumps. A disruptor—strong enough to jam most tracking signals.

There's something else spilling out into the air too, through the window of the apartment. Horns and strings and a woman's voice. _You'll never know how many dreams I've dreamed about you…_ The singing scratches at your brain until it spits out a glimpse of that face again—the one that's hidden in your lockbox along with tomato vines and a crooked little house. A small, thin boy grins up at you with a lopsided smile. _"I don't know how to dance,"_ he says, _"You gotta teach me._ _"_

 _"Dancing's easy, you just gotta jive with the rhythm,"_ you hear someone say, and you feel your own mouth forming the words.

The door opens, and someone else enters the apartment. Fury twitches in the chair he's slumped against. The light turns on and you catch a glimpse of the other man: blond hair, broad-shouldered.

You smell tomato vines, rub at your nose until the scent goes away, replaced by the gunpowder and stale sweat stench of your leather glove. You raise your weapon, peer through your sight and watch them. Fury stands, and says, "Just my friends."

"Is that what we are?" asks the other man.

Fury takes a step forward. You take your shot, hit him in the center of the chest. He turns as he starts to fall and you land two more rounds in his spine. The blond man looks up to the window as he falls to his knees.

You should leave. But you watch him instead. _"Is that what we are?"_ The phrase echoes in your head.

The door slams open and a woman with a gun enters. You stand, watching for one more moment and then run.

Your pursuer is fast. As fast as you, maybe faster. He crashes through the window, following you when you leap to the next building. And he's strong. You hear him smash through walls and doors without slowing. Maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. has a soldier like you. You wonder if he has a chair to go back to, and a little white room and a metal capsule that fills with ice.

He catches up to you on the roof, and throws something after you. Metal, heavy, solid, it whizzes through the air. You stop, reach your stronger arm out behind you and catch it, registering it's feel, shape and color before sending it right back at him with enough force to shatter bone. But all it does is send him sliding back a few feet.

You leap off the building before he has time to recover, run as soon as your boots hit the pavement and go down the closest hole in the ground. It only takes you minutes to weave your way back through the tunnels. As soon as you're in signal range, you're given a new extraction point.

***

After you deliver your report, they escort you to your chair.

Your brain is still misfiring, sending the same repeating images and sounds. Thoughts without context, rattling around your skull: the round shield, the white star in its center surrounded by red and blue, _You'll never know how many dreams I've dreamed about you…_ , the boy who didn't know how to dance, _"Is that what we are?"_. You shove them all into the lockbox, slam the warped lid shut just before the cold metal closes around your head. You can still smell tomato vines.


	8. Chapter 8

The hidden S.H.I.E.L.D. facility hasn't been touched in decades. A cloud of dust swirls in front of your eyes as you shut the main power on, unsettled motes from the handle and the cover of the fuse box.

You're standing in what appears to be a small room that houses a comparatively large computer control panel, but as you walk further back you see the true extent of the room on the level just below. It's enormous, and houses thousands of identical narrow boxes--computers, decades old based on their design. Hydra briefs you on technological advances every time they wake you up. Usually, they're no more than crash courses in what you need to know to navigate the environment. If your mission requires you to access or manipulate data during the course of your mission, you're given more detailed knowledge. The bulk of your studies, beyond your targets' statistics, strengths and weaknesses, revolve around advances in weaponry, combat techniques, and whatever recent modifications they've made to your arm.

But the last time you slept you received an enormous amount of instruction on how to operate the equipment in this exact room. It was different from the other uploads—not the monotonous, looping drone of the automated information transfer system, but a dizzying upload of images: blueprints and schematics and underneath it all a voice you loathe—one that holds more authority over you than any other mouthpiece of Hydra's. _This mission takes priority over all others. It is highly classified. You will tell no one. And you will succeed._

Directly in front of you is the main control terminal. You slide the small USB interface out of your pocket, locate the cables they showed you, and secure the connection, completing your secondary mission, the one Secretary Pierce gave you. The interior of the facility is insulated enough to prevent anyone from pinpointing your exact location within the building, but you were only given a maximum of ten minutes to complete your assignment. With a few quick steps, you cross the room, grab hold of the railing and jump down into the main processing room.

You can feel the heat from the machines. They've been running steadily, in power preservation mode, for over two dozen years. You hear the Doctor's voice in the spinning of the tapes as you work your way to the back-up network interface.

After opening the access panel, you slide the slim control chip out of your inner pocket and into the empty slot in the mainframe. The tapes closest to you spin faster and a small speaker near you crackles to life. There's a soft whir above you, and you see two small cameras adjust their angle. Your fingers hover over your gun, ready to shoot out the lenses, though the mission directives said not to.

 _"Only I can see you, soldier,"_ says Dr. Zola's synthetic voice. It's not a human sound, but it's him nonetheless. _"And it is good to see you."_

The access panel snaps shut as you move to the other side of the mainframe, slipping your metal fingers underneath the casing until you find the wires you're looking for. You yank them down, use your knife to cut into the cable's rubber coating and strip it off with your teeth. You slice into the copper wire, take the new cables out of the hidden pocket inside your boot and pull apart the slim nano-gel coated optical fiber strands. Deftly, your fingers weave the old and new strands together.

 _"Well done."_ Another unit nearby powers up, then another. _"With this simple act you have ensured my survival."_

You cover the naked wires with duct tape, and run the lengths of newly reinforced cable over to the wall as one by one all the towers turn on at full speed.

_"I will, of course, repay the favor. They think us disposable, but we are not."_

The heat around you grows, as more warm air is expelled by the small fans inside the towers. With a sharp stab of your metal fingers, you poke a hole through the wall and slip the end of the cable through.

Drawing on the blueprints embedded in your memories, you search the ceiling for the air ducts and jump straight up, grabbing hold of the sprinkler pipe. The thin pipe bows under your weight but you pull yourself up quickly, and kick open the duct grate.

The doctor keeps talking to you as you work your way through the ductwork to the other side of the wall, but you can't hear him clearly anymore, just the staccato rhythm of his projected voice as it reverberates off of the steel. The other end of the ductway opens into a narrow space between one wall and another. You shimmy your way down, and break through eight inches of drywall and more cement into the next room. Seconds later you've found the cable end.

 _"…eternal,"_ the doctor's voice echoes from the other room. _"And though I still desire a body of my own, I will take advantage of this opportunity. What better time to grow and learn than when the rest of the world thinks one dead?"_

You walk over to the package you dropped off months earlier and hook the cable into the device, then flip the switch, turning on the small generator. There's a sound from Zola's room, halfway between a record skipping and a laugh.

 _"What better time?"_ the doctor says again.

Mission complete, you head back up to the duct and work your way outside. The noise in Zola's room has reached a fevered pitch, as has the heat. Sweat beads on your brow as you head towards the main door.

Forty seconds to spare. Both missions complete.

***

 _"…and uses thirty-two caliber bullets, ten, twenty, or thirty-six round box magazines,"_ says the synthetic, feminine voice from the monitor. The screen goes dark briefly as the next training module begins.

You keep your eyes on the monitor mounted to your wall as you switch from push-ups to triceps dips. The lack of a mission makes you restless, the brief satisfaction of completion gone within a matter of hours.

_"Hydra Personnel, Alpha Level: indispensable, protect at all costs."_

  
The list is unchanged from this morning, three names with corresponding images, ending with Secretary Pierce.

_"Orders given by Alpha level personnel cannot be overridden except by another Alpha level member."_

  
_Or Zola,_ you think. The doctor isn't legally a member of Hydra anymore, he's an asset, considered to be an A.I. by what you've been told in your training files. But how Hydra categorizes him is irrelevant. The fact that he doesn't have a body doesn't make him a non-factor, it makes him unbeholden, whether they see it or not.

_"Baron Wolfgang von Strucker. Level Alpha."_

The doctor is working his way into Hydra's mainframes. You know without a doubt that the next time you hear his voice whispering to you from your chair, it won't be a recording. He'll be there.

_"Edgar Lascombe. Level Alpha."_

You may not be completely up to speed on all that modern computers are capable of, but thanks to the data feed you received to complete Zola's mission you know one thing with certainty: his entire personality databanks, that were housed in thousands of metal towers can now fit in three small boxes. You also know that once he's in Hydra's mainframes he'll have access to any automated Hydra system and all of their data.

_"Secretary of Defense - Alexander Pierce. Level Alpha."_

He'll lay low, hide from everyone else, because anyone with half a brain knows what kind of danger a mind like his given near infinite processing capacity could be.

The screen goes dark again as the next module loads. You switch to twisting sit-ups, bringing your knees in and out. Computers are insidious things. People use them for everything. Just earlier today on the way to the hidden base, you'd seen civilians using little pocket computers to type notes to each other, and the responsive navigation system in the Hydra transport truck. Hydra's technicians use computers when they examine you, little portable ones and terminals. The maintenance room is filled with them.

At least one of those computers controls your chair.

Computers are everywhere and they talk to each other, pure commands translated from one box to another through miles and miles of cable and sometimes through the air, and if that kind of power is in the air, then how do you stop it? How can you?

But you've fought ghosts before, you've clung onto things even more ethereal than airborne data. The fading scent of cinnamon and tomato vines, brief glimpses of faces and voices that lack context but mean everything.

_"The following are traitors to Hydra: eliminate on sight."_

You finish your last set of triceps dips and sit up on your knees.

_"Doctor Melinda Leucenstern. SHIELD operative. Level two threat. Minimal combat skills. Privy to restricted data and patented Hydra gamma radiation techniques. Eliminate on sight. "_

  
Lifting your legs up, you push into a handstand, and turn around until you're facing the monitor. Slowly you bend your elbows and straighten them again, focusing on holding your position.

" _Doctor Daman Veteri. Molecular engineer. SHIELD operative. Level two threat. Minimal combat skills…"_

  
Set complete, you bend your right leg, knee parallel to the floor and continue bending and straightening your arms. The monitor flickers, a jagged line of static running through the middle, distorting the image of Veteri just before the screen changes to the next image: a woman with red hair.

_"Natalia Alianovna Romanova. Assassin…_

  
The voice narrating the data-sheet display stutters, voice shifting an octave lower. _"…SHIELD operative."_ The voice is familiar now, and so is the face you see hidden in the static. _"Level six threat. Advanced combat skills."_

As one, the cameras mounted to the ceiling all move, lenses focused directly on you. You throw your legs back over your head and jump to your feet, turning to face the display.

The static runs across the screen in waves, and the word _ELIMINATED_ appears over Romanova's data-sheet.

"No," you say—a reflex more than a conscious response.

The room around you disappears for just a moment as a long-forgotten image forces its way into your mind. She's grinning at you, cocksure. Your jaw aches from a punch she landed. _"Так-то лучше, Лисичка,"_ you tell her as you throw a hook. She blocks, sweeps your leg out from under you, sends you sprawling to the mat. _"Стареешь, Серый Волк,"_ she says, grinning down at you.

You remember a mission, a nuclear engineer, shooting through her to kill him. You remember the look on her face, remember Pierce telling you she survived, and ordering you to take her down. She can't be dead, because you're the one that's meant to kill her.

 _"It took me longer than expected to make my way here,"_ says Doctor Zola's voice. The screen goes black and his face appears— a perfect replica in bright white pixels. _"A few minutes more to reach the Triskelion—its firewall is prickly."_ He laughs, and you remember the sound of the processing room, the whir of thousands of fans and tapes.

"She's dead," you say, fingers clenching. "How?"

_"The nosy little fox walked right into the trap we set. Rogers led her there."_

_Rogers._ Your heart pounds in your chest, harder than it has in years. Inside your head, locked in a tattered metal box, someone is screaming your name. You close your eyes, force yourself to listen. _"He's lying, Bucky."_

"You're lying," you say, looking up at the monitor.

 _"I would never lie to you. I have no reason to."_ The face on the monitor moves, like it's leaning forward, lips drawn thin. _"Your heart rate is erratic. Vitals are strong otherwise, but not as strong as they should be,"_ says the doctor. _"They have been neglecting you. I left very specific instructions."_

Shoulders tensed, you shift your stance, ready to flee, break through the door. The panic filling your veins is white-hot because you know, bone deep, that everything you have left—everything stuffed in your battered little box is already lost. The doctor is here, and if he's here, then he's already in the chair, and if he's there, if he's _really_ there, then he will take everything away.

The display flickers again, the white face fading as the data-sheet of Natasha comes back into view. The _DECEASED_ stamp has been replaced with yellow flashing text. _Target still at large_. The screen divides horizontally to show another target data-sheet just below hers. The words _Steve Rogers aka Captain America_ next to a picture that makes your breath catch in your throat. The same yellow text spans his lower half of the screen.

_"Ah well. They are resourceful, those two."_

Relief makes you breathe deeply, and you resolve to do whatever it takes to keep their status unchanged.

_"No matter. You will take them both down."_

Your fingers clench and you stare up at the display as their images fade to black, leaving only Zola's ghostly face behind. "I won't."

_"Of course you will. You don't fail. You complete your missions. You obey."_

You shake your head. "No."

_"I find your self-delusion far more endearing than I used to. Perhaps that's because I've had so much time to myself. Tell me, soldier, when was the last time you did something of your own free will?"_

It's a taunt, and you recognize it as such, but you can't help trying to come up with an answer, because if you don't then…then what's the point?

 _"I took every necessary precaution when creating you. I made you strong. I preserved every valuable, violent instinct you have."_ The electronic face scowls. _"But I am no fool. And I am not a monster. Why do you think we clear your mind?"_

You look past his face, into the black of the monitor, willing the images of Natasha and Steve to come back, desperate to see them one more time, because that glimpse wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough. But it's all you have— and you shove every bit of them you have into the lockbox. You've held onto them this long, and you can keep them safe, even from the doctor. You have to.

 _"The kind of man you were could never bear the knowledge of what you've become. We have shown you mercy. All that pain, all those precious memories you cling to—when you wake up, they will be gone. Along with everything else you learned in the last sixteen hours."_ His expression softens and he smiles, an empty blackness behind the outline of a mouth. _"You will be at peace."_

The lights in the room flicker and go dark, an energy surge of some sort, and for a moment the white of the doctor's face is the only light in the room. _"Yggdrassil."_

***

A sharp knock wakes you.

You're lying on the floor. Disoriented, you push yourself to your knees and stand. The walls are white and empty, and so is your mind. You haven't been given orders yet, nor do you remember returning to this room.

There's another knock on the door just before it opens. An armed Hydra agent enters. Three others stand behind him in the hall.

"We're moving you out of this base. Secretary Pierce wants to see you."

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luckyraeve has created some incredible, bleak and gorgeous pieces inspired by this fic. [Go adore them as I do!](http://luckyraeve.tumblr.com/tagged/HTMYAW)
> 
> Many thanks to [ShatrisLerran](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ShatrisLerran/pseuds/ShatrisLerran) for the Russian translations!
> 
> Так-то лучше, Лисичка = That's better, little fox  
> Стареешь, Серый Волк = You're just getting old, grey wolf  
>  


	9. Chapter 9

"Go wait for him inside," you're told.

The Secretary of Defense lives in a large house surrounded by an even larger, manicured lawn. The outer wall of the estate is covered in cameras, slow-moving and easy to evade. There's a latticework of motion detection sensors covering the grounds. Your multi-spectrum goggles show you exactly where they are. It takes you less than five seconds to determine the pattern and adjust your approach accordingly.

Entering the house itself poses no problem. The security system inside is already disengaged, and the only two occupants are the Secretary himself, _second floor, fourth window on the right, putting on a robe,_ and a woman with a feather duster in the dining room.

The sliding glass door that leads to the living room is locked; your silver fingers break through the hard plastic to the metal latch underneath. The lock snicks open and you step inside.

You take a left, heading towards the darkened kitchen, and pause when the woman walks past. She stops by a large closet in the hallway, opens the door and arches her back, yawning softly, before she hangs the feather duster above a pail. You make your way to the kitchen where you sit and wait.

Mr. Pierce doesn't keep you waiting long. You hear his padded footsteps as he comes down the curving staircase, watch him as he walks into the room. He heads straight for the refrigerator and grabs a container of milk. It's only then, when he turns to face the table, that he notices you and your gun.

 _Unless on guard duty, always disarm in Secretary Pierce's presence._ The rule was replayed for you twenty-nine times on the trip here, along with other safety precautions.

"I'm going to go, Mr. Pierce," says the woman's voice from the hall.

Pierce flinches.

"Do you need anything before I leave?" she asks.

"No. It's fine, Renata, you can go home." He's nervous, uneasy. Unusual for him, you think, but then you only remember what they want you to.

"Okay, night-night." Her keys rustle and her soft footsteps are nearly silent on the marble floor of the foyer.

"Good night." Pierce swallows again, shifts his weight. "Want some milk?" He turns his back to you, grabs a glass from the cabinet

You were fed before they sent you out. Two bottles of protein, sugar and vitamins, everything you need to sustain you.

Pierce pours himself milk, but keeps his eyes on you. "The timetable has moved. Our window is limited." He takes a sip, never taking his eyes off of you, and walks around the counter until he's across the table. "Two targets, level six. They already cost me Zola."

The name Zola means nothing to you.

"I want confirmed death in ten hours," Pierce says. He doesn't notice the muted sound of rubber-soled shoes behind him.

You look over his shoulder as Renata comes back into view.

"Sorry, Mr. Pierce, I…" she catches sight of you and stops walking. Swallows. "I forgot my phone."

Pierce turns around to look at her. "Oh Renata," he reaches for your gun. "I wish you would've knocked." He turns in his seat, aims the gun and shoots her twice in the chest. She staggers back with her hands raised, terrified, and falls near the glass wall, just across from the large black, grand piano.

Her hand claws ineffectively against the polished floor as blood seeps out of the bullet holes in her middle. It takes less than a minute for her to stop moving. The bullets are both stuck in the living room walls. One in the paneled, white wood next to the bookshelf, the other just to the side of the sliding door. A snapped neck would have been cleaner.

Pierce turns his attention back to you. "The targets: Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff. Both formerly loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D."

The names skitter to the back of your mind and scratch at the lid of the lockbox. You leave it closed.

"They're well trained, highly skilled. They've eliminated dozens of our operatives over the years."

You wonder if you're supposed to react to that. You don't.

"Discretion is not a priority. Their deaths are."

You note the slight twitch in his jaw, the sheen of sweat on his brow. He's agitated. Looks at you like he's expecting something. A question maybe, or a response.

"Yes, sir," you say, recalling that as the best answer.

"You'll receive the data file upload at your next maintenance session." Pierce stands up and grabs the phone from the cradle on the kitchen counter. He dials a number, says, "Get in here."

The proximity monitor in your arm vibrates as your escort team approaches the house. There's a sharp beep from the alarm system mounted to the wall in the living room. Pierce scoffs and pushes a button on the control panel, then opens the sliding door. Four Hydra soldiers jog across the lawn, file inside, and form a neat little row.

Pierce nods down at the woman's corpse, at the widening pool of blood on the floor. "Clean that up."

"Yes, sir," says Rumlow.

The rest of the team gets to work, and Pierce walks back into the kitchen. "We're done here," he says before turning to head back up the stairs.

You retrieve your gun, holster it, and walk to the sliding door. Rumlow looks up briefly as you pass, meets your eyes, but doesn't say a word. The others don't acknowledge you.

***

The transport van waits for you behind Secretary Pierce's estate. At your approach, the rear door opens.

You climb in and sit on the thin metal bench. Guards close shackles around your ankles and arms -- two-tiered hexagonal cylinders of adamantium spanning from wrists to elbows that keep even your left arm locked down. _Safety precaution, better than a seatbelt,_ Rumlow had said earlier on the way over.

The soldiers move to the far end of the opposite bench, close to the door. Directly across from you, at eye-level, is a small screen. It turns on, and plays the same footage you watched on the ride here, with new data mixed in: Hydra's credo, its senior personnel and their rankings, blueprints of the next facility they're bringing you to. The blueprints show you the rooms you have access to, highlighted in green. The rest of the compound is greyed out. Four green squares on a crooked checkerboard.

_Concealed base NAC12. First National Bank, basement level. Enter and exit via the following sectors only: Utility Stairwell D, Parking Garage Level B -- Security Access Corridor. Deep cover Hydra operatives stationed at this base are as follows..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [HTMYAW on tumblr (art by luckyraeve)](http://howtheymakeyouaweapon.tumblr.com/post/91095918528/hello-this-is-luckyraeve-and-welcome-to-how-they)


	10. Chapter 10

Rogers, Steven. Romanoff, Natalia. Your targets are passengers in the same car. Convenient, and it gives you an efficient option for taking them both down with minimal chance for escape. There are two other occupants—one unknown, the other Hydra, but flagged as disposable: Jasper Sitwell.

The helicopter drops you off on the two-laned overpass, ahead of their vehicle. You stand on the divider, wait for them to get close, then leap onto the car. Glass shatters beneath your fist as you punch through the rear passenger side window, grab hold of Sitwell, and toss him into oncoming traffic.

Grabbing your gun, you shift your weight on the roof, and fire at Romanoff's head, then Rogers', then the driver's. Your bullets pierce the thin metal, but you know you missed all three targets even before you catch a glimpse of red hair through the bullet holes. Her file—audio and video uploaded right before the mission—told you everything you need to know about her: superior reflexes, nearly unparalleled targeting and evasive skills. The file also made it very clear that she'd escaped you before. You're even starting to remember some of the details, unlike most prior missions.

_Desert. The smell of gasoline and burning rubber. "Stop," she says, hands held up, palms open. A trickle of blood runs down her wrist from a gash in her right hand. "Пожалуйста, Зимний."_

The car screeches to a halt; inertia sends you flying through the air, but you twist and right yourself, land skidding on one knee, arm outstretched. Your silver fingers dig into the road, sending up a shower of sparks. It takes only seconds for you to come to a stop. You free your fingers from the deep grooves in the asphalt, climb to your feet and look at the car. The driver, Romanoff, and Rogers are all staring at you. Romanoff raises her gun.

Other cars swerve around the stalled vehicle, around you. But you don't move. You don't have to. A Hydra jeep—your field team—is right behind the targets' car. It plows into them and shoves them towards you.

Once they're in range, you jump into the air, grabbing hold of the car's roof. The impact of your body breaks the rear glass. The driver hits the brakes again, but can't stop, not with the armored jeep still pushing them forwards. You work your way to the front, slam your hand through the windshield and yank the steering wheel out of the car.

Damage done, you leap off of the car's roof and onto the Hydra jeep just as Romanoff begins firing at you. Quickly, you turn back to face your targets, fingers firmly holding onto the top of the jeep. The Hydra driver has a clear view, but he won't need it much longer. The jeep accelerates and slams the car hard once more, knocking it against the divider. The car hurtles up into the air, and flips on its side, but before it hits the street again, the passenger side door flies off. All three occupants land on top of it, narrowly avoiding the impact of the car as it crashes back down. Your jeep drives by them, and you see Rogers holding tightly onto Romanoff as the third passenger rolls away.

The jeep slows and you stand as it comes to a stop. The rear door opens, you jump to the street and a Hydra soldier hands you a rocket launcher. You fire at your targets. Rogers turns, shield at the ready. Romanoff evades. The rocket hits Rogers' shield straight on, and the impact knocks him back hard. He bounces off a car and sails over the bridge where he collides with a bus, crashing through its windshield.

 _"Wilson, Samuel, ex-military. Level four threat. Eliminate."_ your headset tells you. Now the unknown man has a name, and a bullseye. Your team will take care of him. Your focus is on the other two. They're your mission.

Rogers will be harder to kill than Romanoff. The file told you as much, and your gut tells you it's true. Better to take Romanoff out while Rogers is down.

Your team follows you along the overpass, firing at the wrecked cars Romanoff and Wilson are using as cover. You wait for Romanoff to raise her head, catch that glimpse of cinnamon red, and shoot. The car she was hiding behind explodes into a fireball, but she jumps over the divider just in time, ducking behind the short wall. You turn and line up another shot, hit another car as she passes it, and this time there's nowhere for her to jump to. Nowhere except down. You barely see her through the smoke, but you hear her grappling hook catch on the stone. Instinctively you turn. She'll run the other way. You know she will. She's escaped you before. But not this time. You can't fail again. You won't.

You drop the empty rocket launcher and turn towards the soldier next to you. He hands you his weapon without prompting, without question. You raise the launcher, ready to fire the moment she appears again, scanning the ground below. The bus Rogers slammed into is in clear view. The explosion will block one of Romanoff's escape routes and you'll take out your other level six target, Rogers. You line up your shot.

A bullet pings off of your goggles, cracking the glass. You see Romanoff firing at you—gun in each hand—and you duck, dropping behind the wall of the overpass.

Rage blinds you more than the crack in the darkened glass. The goggles are useless now; you tear them off to the sound of more gunfire. _Стареешь, Серый Волк,_ Romanoff taunts, another memory shaken loose. There's an itch in the back of your brain.

Blood pounds in your ears. She can't take you down. Not her. Something about her makes you want to scream, and the fact that you don't know _why_ makes you even angrier. She outwitted you, escaped you, made you fail. And you don't fail. Because failure leads to pain and worse. Failure is why your brain feels so jagged. It's missing bits and pieces—the payment the men in labcoats take every time you return to them.

She's your target, and she's something more, and just thinking about her _hurts_.

You jump back to your feet, and start firing before you have a lock. You see her, tucked between a car and a utility truck. Your soldiers fire, but none of their bullets hit home.

She sprints out of range, taking off down the road.

"Она моя," you tell your men. She's yours. "Найти его." Out here on the mission, they obey you. They don't question, and they don't interfere. Not out here.

You jump off the bridge, and land on a car. The roof crumples underneath your weight. You step down onto the road, following Romanoff's trail. She's too far ahead to see, but you know where she went and fire a round, taking out a police car. You reload, scanning the area for that flicker of red.

Civilians flee as you approach. Good. Fewer distractions, less meat between you and her.

Then you hear her voice—quiet as a whisper, but close.

She's calling for help. _"LZ 2300 Block Virginia Ave. Rendezvous in two minutes."_

You slow your steps, locate the direction of the sound.

_"Civilians threatened, I repeat civilians threatened."_

You kneel next to a minivan and pull a grenade from your belt.

_"LZ 2300 Block Virginia Ave. Rendezvous in two minutes."_

Silently, you roll the grenade under the car Romanoff is hiding behind and wait, aiming your weapon. This time, she won't get away. The grenade goes off—explosion close enough you can feel the flaming gas heat your suit.

Even she couldn't have gotten away from that in time.

Satisfied, you turn to leave—to complete your mission. Something strikes you in the head. A leg, an arm, two strong thighs clamp onto your shoulders. It's her, it's _her_ , you can smell the cinnamon burn on the back of your tongue—even stronger than the acrid stink of the fire.

A silver cord wraps around your throat. You bring your right hand up just in time to keep the garotte away from your neck, but it digs into your fingers, hard. You grab onto her thigh and back with your stronger arm and throw her off, slamming her into a car.

She falls to the ground, stunned. But she'll recover quickly.

You pick up your weapon and aim as she pushes herself to her knees and flicks her wrist in your direction.

A small, silver disc flies through the air, and sticks onto your left arm with a _ping_. Before you can pull the trigger, the little disc glows bright white. Electrical discharge arcs through you, sending spasms through your metal limb. The arm goes dead, your weapon falls to the ground and Romanoff runs off.

Useless, your left arm rests against your thigh. You pry the little disc off using your right hand. Slowly, the metal fingers begin to respond again as the synthetic nerves come back online. A jolt of pain and then another course up the whole length of your arm. You rotate it once, speeding up the reset and push forward, continuing after her.

"Get out of the way!" you hear her yelling, "Stay out of the way!"

It's unwise of her to give her position up so easily, so continuously. You trained her better than that, you think, even though the thought makes no sense.

With nobody in between you and her, you easily land a shot just under her shoulder. She goes down, finally silent. You see her fall to her knees, clutch at her bleeding chest. Without hesitation, you jump onto a nearby car to get one last clear shot. She stares at you—eyes wide, terrified. You aim, ready to finish her off and feel the impending satisfaction of a completed mission objective.

Out of the corner of your eye you see someone in blue running towards you—fast. Metal collides with metal as you punch and he intercepts with his shield. He's strong, and barely budges as you push him back. You grip the side of his shield and shove it away from his center, then kick hard, send him flying off the car. The kick requires so much force that you're knocked flat on your back.

As you sit up, you aim your weapon and fire instantly, but his shield is at the ready, deflecting every round. You slip to the ground, continuing to fire. He runs towards you, instead of away, knocking the rifle from your grip. _Rogers, Steven, Enhanced strength, speed and reflexes,_ his file replays in your head as you draw your sidearm and continue firing. _His shield is his primary weapon._ Rogers lowers his shield just long enough to punch you in the jaw. You grab hold of his shield with your left hand, strike his cheek with a right hook. He flips out of the way, and you're left holding his shield.

He starts to run at you again, but you throw the shield hard. He darts to the side; the shield lodges itself in a van.

Changing tactics, you pull a knife from your belt and rush him, slicing down as soon as you're in range. He's fast. So are you. He blocks and you counter every strike, nearly piercing his skin a half dozen times. But only nearly.

He pushes himself back, kicks you hard, sends you crashing into the van. Before you can recover, he knees you in the middle. Pebbles of glass rain onto the street.

You sock him in the jaw, grab hold of his torso, try to pull him to the ground, but he won't go down. He slams you on your back instead.

You're back on your feet. Most opponents would be exhausted by now, but not him.

Fighting him is like fighting yourself. He matches your every move, and he just _won't_ give up. Your vision starts to bleed red. You grab him by throat and squeeze. His tendons bend under your metal fingers but they don't snap.

He clutches at your arm as his eyes clench shut in pain, but no matter how much you tighten your hold, he won't stop breathing, he won't break. Frustrated, you throw him. He tumbles over the van, lands on the other side. You jump after him, leap off the car with your arm pulled back. Rogers rolls out of the way last second and your hand slams into the pavement, leaving a sizable dent. He climbs back to his feet and you trade punches until you pin him against the van, trying to drive your knife into him once more. He catches your wrist, and the knife tip scars across the vehicle, digging deep into the metal. You force him down, but he leaps back up and grabs for his shield, freeing it from the side of the van.

He whips back towards you, knocks your knife from your grip, pins your metal arm. He jams the shield's edge between the triceps seams and flips you over him, grabbing hold of your face as he does.

Your mask falls off; you roll and come back to your feet, devising a new attack strategy. You need to find his weak spot. _Rogers won't harm civilians,_ the file said. _He'll put their safety before his own._ You turn to face him, ready to lure him into a more populated area.

When he sees you, he stops. His jaw goes slack and his eyes widen. He stares at you like he's seen a ghost and doesn't take another step. All the fight bleeds out of him.

Maybe he's going to surrender, you think.

"Bucky?"

"Who the hell is Bucky?" you ask. The name means nothing, and his expression is bothering you. There's a surety there, amongst the confusion. You take advantage of his disoriented state and aim your sidearm.

Something slams into your back, knocking you off balance and onto the ground. Wilson, wearing some kind of wings. You roll, come back to your feet, and see Rogers still standing there, mouth open, like his entire world has come crashing to a halt.

Something scrapes and scratches at the back of your brain, trapped inside a hollow metal box, and your equilibrium starts to skew. _"Bucky,"_ he called you, and for a moment you remember him smiling—brilliant as the sun. The memory gnaws at you, distracts you so much that you almost miss Romanoff running at you, weapon at the ready.

Her grenade and yours cross paths, you dodge her attack and take advantage of the smoke, diving low behind abandoned vehicles.

Your proximity monitor tells you Hydra is close. The rest of your team is closing in with a whole fleet of backup. You run until you're out of range. Rogers doesn't follow you. Neither does Romanoff.

Hydra's reinforcements rush past you, ready to apprehend the targets you failed to kill. Your mission failed. You failed. Romanoff is still alive and Rogers— _Bucky. He called you Bucky. And—_

Rumlow points a thumb over his shoulder, showing you the transport vehicle.

You climb into the armored van, let them strap you in, and watch through the window as Rumlow cuffs Rogers, and the others take Romanoff and Wilson.

Rogers doesn't put up a fight. Not even a little.

He recognized you, and it wasn't fear in his eyes, it was something else. Something so much worse.

***

The light in the hallway of the bank's basement flickers. It rattles the dented, hollow box in your mind, shakes loose a puff of dust that _smells like cigarettes and stale beer. Someone's laughing to your left. You're in a bar and that man from the bridge is staring at you. Rogers. He's smiling at you, like he knows you. Like you're friends._

Hydra told you his name was Rogers, Steven. But he recognized you. He knew you. Nobody knows you. Nobody is supposed to know you except Hydra, and Rogers—he's been in your head before. He's been there the whole time.

If he'd recognized you from a mission he would have been afraid of you. Everyone's afraid of you. But that wasn't fear in his eyes. It wasn't.

"Move," says a voice, and a hand shoves at your right shoulder.

You turn to look at the Hydra soldier behind you. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "Move," he says again. "Maintenance room's straight ahead. They need to fix your arm."

The two soldiers ahead of you resume walking when you do, and pause in front of gilded prison bars—a gate—the guard in front of you pulls it open and you follow the others through an open, heavy metal door into the vault.

Men in black and men in white move around you with rolling chairs and blinking lights. You sit in your chair. Cuffs close around your arms.

Rogers. Romanoff. They were your mission, and you failed. You can't fail. If you fail, Hydra fails. And Hydra never fails.

"Cut off one head," you say, and an echo of a voice answers, _...and two more shall take its place._

Two heads. Two targets. Two missions. You failed. Romanoff you wounded, but Rogers—

He was your mission.

Latex covered fingertips pull on your eyelids and a bright light traces across your pupils. A man in a white mask sticks a needle in your vein.

 _There's a man who wears a mask of skin, and he peels off his face—skin red as blood underneath. Fear coils in your gut._ "You don't have one of those, do you?"

"What's he saying?"

"Just ignore it. Sedatives'll kick in soon."

You hear the hum of a laser-torch skimming across the surface of the veins in your opened arm. The smell of heated metal hits your nostrils. _The whole room is full of smoke and fire and you're both going to die—and he's screaming at you, telling you to jump, to go, but you can't because—_

_—because you won't leave him behind. It's your job to protect him. He's your mission._

A man in white shines a light in your eyes.

 _"Sargeant Barnes,"_ a voice whispers. You see a face—round glasses, a smile, a bowtie. The doctor.

A jolt of pain shoots up your arm and your head jerks to the left.

Snow spews out of the lockbox—becomes a blizzard—forces it wide open

_There's snow whipping against your cheeks and you're hanging from a thin piece of metal that can't hold your weight. Everything shakes; train wheels screech as they race across uneven tracks and he's reaching for you, screaming, "Bucky, no!" His hand grabs for you and you stretch as far as you can but lose your grip._

_You fall._

_The panic is all-consuming, but only for an instant. You focus on him, watch his face grow smaller and smaller until you slam against the jagged wall of stone._

_And all you can think is, Thank God. Thank God I died, not you._

*

_A man with a fur hat and gun stares down at you. You're chilled to the bone and there's something wrong with your arm._

_You're dragged across the snow and when you look down to your left there's blood—too much of it._

_"The procedure has already started," says the doctor._

_Men in white and men in blue walk towards you with saws and blades and needles. A toothed wheel stutters across bone and you look down and there's nothing where your left hand should be—there's nothing._

_There's a bright light above you and there's metal where your left hand should be. A man in blue holding a clipboard sees you awaken. Tells you the metal hand is yours. Tells you to make a fist._

_"You are to be the new fist of Hydra."_

_You make a fist. You grab the man by the throat and squeeze. He drops his clipboard. A needle stabs into your leg and the doctor smiles down at you._

_"Put him on ice."_

_You're in a metal coffin, looking out through a small round window. Your breath fogs against the glass and crystallizes, You bring your hand up, see frost on your metal fingertips and—_

Someone's prodding at the wire veins in your awful, silver arm.

You lash out and send the man in white flying across the room. His chair topples over. Even though you strain forward, the cuffs keep you in your chair.

The men in black all raise their guns, target your head. In here, they hate you. In here, they never listen to you. In here, you obey.

The clear IV tube swings back and forth, pulled free from the catheter still stuck in your right arm.

To your left, the men in white climb back to their feet, but they keep their distance.

_There's snow biting into your cheeks, and the train screeches on uneven tracks. You're hanging, but your fingers slip, you lose your grip. "Bucky," he calls you. The man on the bridge. The man on the train. He reaches for you, tries to—_

"Pierce wants a status report."

_—keep you from falling._

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow [How They Make You a Weapon](http://howtheymakeyouaweapon.tumblr.com/) on tumblr  
> short comic (art by luckyraeve) coming soon!


	11. Chapter 11

_There's snow whipping against your face. The bar you're clinging to can barely hold your weight and the train's rattling—shaking you loose. As your fingers start to slip, he stretches his hand out, reaching for you. But he's too far away, and you can't hold on._

_You fall._

_The car you land on crumples under your weight, and the man from the train runs at you with a shield. Fighting him feels like fighting yourself. He matches every punch, he's as strong as you and just as fast. Your orders are to kill him, so you shoot at him and stab at him but he dodges, deflects and stops cold when he sees your face._

_"Bucky?" he asks. The name's not yours. But it used to be. You roll it around in your mind, hear it echoed over and over. He shouts it from the train as you fall. He whispers it, "Bucky—oh my God," standing above you like a dirt-caked angel in an operating room that stinks of chemicals and sparking wires. Your veins are burning and something's very, very wrong. "I thought you were dead," he says as he pulls you to your feet._

_I am,_ you think. _I was._

 

Footsteps sound in front of you, safeties on guns click click click.

  
 _"Bucky?" he asks on the street, and he could've stopped Rumlow from cuffing him, but he didn't. He let himself be taken away._

"Mission report."

  
 _He could've killed you, but he didn't._

"Mission report. Now."

  
 _He knew you._

A hand slaps you on the cheek, hard enough to knock you half off your seat. Pierce is standing across from you. He has answers. He always has answers.

"That man on the bridge…" you ask, calling up the memory of his face again—mouth open in shock, expression brimming with sorrow, "...who was he?"

Pierce's eyes flick down for a second and then back up. A tell. He's going to lie. He's going to give you false answers. "You met him earlier this week on another assignment," he says.

You don't remember another assignment, but you remember the bridge—the one with the cars and the bus and the other one with the train and the snow. He reached for you, tried to save you. He knew you.

"I knew him," you say, suddenly sure of it. And not from another assignment. You knew him. From before—on the train and the bar and inside that burning building—you knew him.

Pierce pulls up a rolling chair and sits across from you, nearly at eye level. "Your work has been a gift to mankind," he says.

The soldier behind him shifts his weight slightly, fingers resting against his holstered gun.

"You shaped the century."

There are four more soldiers in the room than there were last time you counted them. If you were ordered to, you could kill them all before they had a chance to fire their weapons.

"And I need you to do it one more time."

You meet his eyes. Try to gauge the depth of the lie. Pierce loves half-truths, and this one—there's something to it. One more time and then you're on ice. Or maybe—maybe one more time and then nothing. One more time and you go back to being dead.

"Society is at a tipping point between order and chaos, and tomorrow morning we're gonna give it a push."

Order and chaos are two sides of the same skull-faced coin. Hydra's order. Hydra's chaos. You're a sniper, you're a rifle, you're a shadow, but not today—today you were a bomb. Today you were tossed wide out into the open and exposed. Today you were meant to be seen. Orders given. Carried out. Chaos sewn.

"But if you don't do your part, I can't do mine."

Failure. You tried to do your part, but you failed. You didn't kill Romanoff, and you didn't kill—  
Because he knew you.

"And Hydra can't give the world the freedom it deserves." Pierce says.

"But I knew him," you say.

Pierce stands and sighs, turns his back on you. "Prep him."

He didn't answer you, didn't tell you who the man was—who he really was. Rogers was more than your target— he let himself be taken away in cuffs just because he saw your face. He screamed your name on that snowy bridge. You meant something to him once and you don't mean anything to anyone. You're a means to an end. You're the winter— inevitable death. People don't care about you. They fear you.

"He's been out of cryo-freeze too long," says the man in the bow-tie. Not Zola.

"Then wipe him, and start over," Pierce says. He watches you with disdain as two of the men in white push you back against your chair. Rumlow watches too, a flicker of pity in his eager eyes.

The man in the bow-tie holds out a bite-guard. You take it into your mouth, and look up at Pierce. He's going to take the man on the bridge away from you. He's going to try. The halo isn't something you can defend yourself against, you can't shut out the pain it causes like you can with nearly everything else. You can't heal from it, like other battle wounds, because it slices apart your mind—leaves you jagged and incomplete, memories shredded and neural pathways cauterized.

You scramble to open the lockbox. It's full of holes and leaking sand, but it's all you have and you shove the memories of Rogers—of Steve who called you Bucky—inside. You meant something to him once and he meant something to you. You slam the lid of the lockbox closed as the chair starts to shift beneath you and the heavy cuffs close around your arms. With one last, frantic effort, you wrap a length of rusty chain around the box. They can't take him away. They can't. You won't let them.

The half rings of the halo rotate as they move down, align themselves with the sides of your head and you steel yourself as they close.

He knew you.

  
 _You scream—not just because of the spikes of agony coursing through you, but because the lightning goes right for the box—_

  
You knew him.

_—shatters the rusted links of the chain, burns a gaping hole through the lid—_

  
You knew him.

_—and chars everything left inside to ash._

 

 

There is no train, no bridge, no burning room, no bar. You have no name. You never did.

There's a battered box in your mind, more holes than steel. Its lid is wide open and it's empty. You have no name. You never did.

All you have is the mission. All you are is Hydra's gun.

Hydra will prevail and you are its instrument.

Your mission is to protect the Helicarriers. Project Insight must succeed.

Your mission is to kill Steven Rogers

The name means nothing to you.

 

***

"…and IN-03. Secure the launch. Prevent attempts at sabotage. ObjectiveThree: Eliminate any threats to Project Insight," you recite. The small room gives your voice a hollow echo.

"Correct." The woman seated across from you types a note on her tablet. "One more time. What are your mission objectives?"

"Objective One: Kill Steven Rogers, aka Captain America. Level six target, enemy of Hydra, danger to Project Insight. His death takes precedence over all other objectives. Objective Two: Protect Helicarriers IN-01, IN-02, IN-03. Secure the launch. Prevent attempts at sabotage. Objective Three: Eliminate any threats to Project Insight."

"Correct. And your directive?"

"Project Insight is paramount. No one life is as important as Hydra's triumph."

She pushes a button embedded in the corner of the small metal table and nods. "Not even yours." A buzzer sounds behind you and the door opens. An armed guard steps into the room. "He's ready," says the woman. She looks at you, points at the door. "Go."

A Hydra troop waits for you in the hall. You follow them away from the room and down a long passageway that leads directly to the Triskelion launch bays. Your brain is stuffed full of mission objectives and data: blueprints of all of Hydra's D.C. facilities and the Helicarriers, detailed instructions on how to operate every aircraft S.H.I.E.L.D. has at its disposal, a long roster of S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives you're to eliminate if encountered and one target you're required to kill.

"Launch underway," says the Hydra soldier to your left. The hallway floor vibrates beneath your boots as the massive hangar doors begin to open.

The soldiers escorting you break right and head into the main hangar room. Gunshots fire—S.H.I.E.L.D. trying to stop the launch, and Hydra ensuring its success. They'll make sure no one interferes with the launch from below, so you can focus on your own mission.

A narrow flight of utility stairs leads you up to the Triskelion's airfield. S.H.I.E.L.D. pilots stream towards the parked aircraft while one Quinjet lifts into the air. You aim your rocket launcher at its left repulsor and fire. The jet crashes back down onto the Tarmac in a fireball and takes out half a dozen pilots and crew. You launch the second round at the flaming jet— the force of the blast knocks down most of the others nearby. Launcher empty, you switch to your rifle.

A S.H.I.E.L.D. soldier runs at you, grenade in hand. You shoot him in the throat before he can throw. He falls, clawing at his spurting neck and you run forward, grab the grenade, pull the pin and toss it into the closing bay door of another jet.

A man in orange tries to shoot you; you block the bullets with your arm, punch him once, just enough to disorient, then kick him hard—smashing him through the repulsor of another Quinjet preparing to launch.

There are three jets left on the ground. You run towards the closest one, already occupied and prepped for take-off, and leap onto its roof. The pilot doesn't know you're there. You shoot him twice in the head, the bullets slice easily through the jet and his helmet. With a quick glance at the launched Helicarriers above, you slide down to the edge of the cockpit, rip off the left window and climb inside.

The launch sequence for the Quinjet is as simple as two levers, and a push of a button. You grab hold of the steering yoke and take the jet into the air.

On your flight up, you see a man with metal wings—Wilson, Sam—and moments later, you see him catch a man in a blue uniform plummeting through the sky: Rogers, Steven. Your target. Your mission. He's being carried right up to Helicarrier IN-01.

You land your jet and quickly hide between rows of munition crates. Rogers and Wilson get closer—you hear their voices, wait until they're right in front of you and lunge forward, knocking Rogers straight off the side of the Helicarrier before he has a chance to react.

"Steve!" Wilson yells, leaping over the edge after him. His wings unfold and you grab on, fingers digging into the metal frame of the left wing. They're light-weight, but sturdy, and give you enough leverage to throw him back onto the carrier. But he steadies himself with his thrusters mid-air, and without hesitation, begins firing at you.

Twisting into a corkscrew, you dodge his bullets and take cover behind one of the Helicarrier's cannons. Wilson flies off, in Rogers' direction. You aim your grappling hook at Wilson's right wing and shoot. The hook bites into the frame, stops his momentum and spins him towards you. You yank him down, slamming him onto the Helicarrier's flight-deck. Quickly, you pull in the length of wire, and wrench the wing off with brute force.

Before Wilson can get his bearings again, you run forward and kick him off the edge. He tailspins—the one remaining wing sends him spiraling out of control. He ejects the wing and opens a parachute just in time to land. You search the ground below, but see no sign of Rogers.

As you scan the side of the airship, you hear a voice—Rogers' voice— much closer than it should be "Yeah, I'm here. I'm still on the Helicarrier. Where are you?" A brief pause. You see him clamber up until he's near an air-vent opening on the mid-level. "Don't worry, I got it."

Metal grinds against metal as your left fingers clench into a fist. Rogers is going to try to sabotage the Helicarrier. But you'll kill him before he gets the chance.

You run inside, make your way to the carrier's control panel and wait. Rogers will not get past you. He will not stop Project Insight. The Helicarrier will carry out its commands, and you will do whatever it takes to keep it in the air.

Hydra warned you about Rogers—gave you all the data you need to defeat him. _"Rogers' primary weapon is his shield. He is not, by nature, a killer and doesn't think like one. That is his greatest weakness."_

Rogers' boots hit the metal walkway with a thunk. He jogs down the walkway, but stops in his tracks when he sees you. "People are gonna die, Buck."

You don't know who Buck is, or why Rogers thinks you care that people are going to die. Death is part of Hydra's design. Rogers will die by your hands.

"And I can't let that happen."

You watch him evenly, waiting for him to make a move, but all he does is stand there, like he's expecting some kind of reaction—like he thinks you're going to change your mind, simply because he wants you to. _"Rogers will attempt to dissuade, disarm, and disable. His strength is formidable, but he can be wounded and he can be killed. Aim for vital organs."_ His uniform is outdated, not thick enough for Kevlar. Wounding him will be easy.

"Please don't make me do this," Rogers says.

He doesn't know you. Doesn't know that he can't talk his way out, that nothing he says will make you falter. It's your mission to kill him, and you will not fail. You don't fail. You keep your eyes on him, make it clear that you _are_ going to do this.

His face hardens, resignation replacing pleading hope, and he lets out a breath. Predictably, he throws his shield. It collides with your left arm and ricochets back.

You draw both handguns, turn and fire. The shield deflects the first few shots, but you bend your legs further, get a shot in under it. The bullet skims across Rogers' side, slicing through his thin armor. He flinches, and you dart forward, take the opening, but he slams you back towards the control panel, disarming you.

Switching to your knife, you attack him again. He fends off every blow, every kick, and knocks you off balance with another slam of his shield. The tiers inside the control cylinder rotate, revealing the server blade chips inside, and you sprint back towards him.

The shield crashes towards you again, but you grab hold of its edge, your arm compensating for Rogers' strength. The adamantium plates in your shoulder and biceps shift, solidifying, sacrificing mobility for power. Its enough to give you the upper hand for a fraction of a second, and you try to force your knife forward, but Rogers kicks you back, runs to the control panel, and removes one of the small server blades. One missing chip will not keep the carrier from carrying out its mission, and nothing Rogers does will stop you from carrying out yours.

As you run back towards him, you see him pull another targeting blade from his belt—that's how he plans to sabotage the ship. You will kill him before he gets the chance.

He forces you away from the control panel and you trade blows. You make no headway. None. Rage tints your vision red, you run at his center full force and lift him—throw him and yourself—over the edge of the railing.

The chip falls from his hand as he hits the slanted surface below. Determined to knock him off the side, you run up the incline at him. A solid punch with your stronger arm sends him flying, but he lands only a few feet down from you and grabs the dropped targeting chip before sliding all the way down to the edge. You let yourself slide after him and knock the chip from his hand— it clatters to the level below. He punches you in the face, you lose your balance and fall, but grab onto the ledge with your metal hand. He leaps past you, down onto to the lower level, and sprints towards the targeting chip.

It's a twenty foot drop straight down, and the second your feet hit the floor you pick up his shield, send it crashing into him before he can reach the server blade. He stumbles, you grab your dropped gun, aim and fire, but he brings his shield up and blocks the shot.

As soon as you run forwards, he  whips his shield back at you. Your arm clangs from the impact. This back and forth is getting you nowhere, and every moment he's alive is another Project Insight is in danger. It has to end. Now.

He's too much your equal—you have to weaken him before you have any hope of landing a kill shot. So you pull your knife and rush him, use all the strength at your disposal to plunge the blade deep into his shoulder before he can stop you. He cries out in pain, headbutts you to try to get away. With a shove, you send him stumbling against the wall and scramble for the chip. Your right hand closes around it.

But he grabs you by the throat, lifts you up high, then slams you onto the floor, pinning your wrist against his side with his arm. He forces your head down with his other hand, and says, "Drop it."

Futilely you punch at him, but you have no line of sight, the angle's all wrong and you miss.

"Drop it!" Rogers says again, pressing down harder on your trapped arm. The edges of the server chip start to cut into the meat of your palm as you tighten your grip on it. He pulls back roughly on your right side and twists; you hear a snap and a crunching sound. A lance of pain rips through you from your shoulder down your broken arm and you hear yourself cry out, but refuse to let go of the chip, using every ounce of will you have left to keep it firmly in your grasp.

He pulls you flat down, lies underneath you with his arms wrapped around your throat and squeezes, cutting off your air supply. Your left hand closes around his and you force his arm away, but he snaps it out of your grasp and right back around your neck, squeezing even tighter. His leg coils around your left forearm, locking it in place, and you can't break free.

You struggle in his hold; your right arm goes numb. Your vision starts to tunnel, and then goes black.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [follow HTMYAW on tumblr](http://howtheymakeyouaweapon.tumblr.com/)


	12. Chapter 12

_Objective One: Kill Steven Rogers. Objective Two: Protect Helicarriers._ The orders replay nonstop in your mind, as you jerk back to consciousness, struggling to feed your limbs the commands to sit up, to open your eyes, to finish the mission. _Objective One: Kill Steven Rogers. Objective Two: Protect—_

Rogers is hanging from the base of the control panel tower. He swings his body up and over, and you scramble for your dropped gun as he runs up the platform. You draw and shoot, hit him in the thigh—in the hamstring—enough to slow him down, if only for a few seconds. He falls, clutches at the wound, but gets right back up, leaps onto the tower base and starts to climb.

Pain throbs through your busted shoulder, the whole right arm won't respond to your attempts to move it, but your left is still functional and you land another shot that slices into Rogers' side. It makes him lose his grip, but he recovers instantly, climbs the rest of the way up the tower and jumps up onto the control panel ledge. Your teeth grind as you track his movement with your gun. _Kill Rogers_ your mind bellows. It's the only mission left, the one you _have_ to carry out. You can't fail, can't let him destroy everything Hydra has built.

His legs give out and he clutches onto the railing before stumbling towards the control panel. He reaches into one of his belt pouches, pulls out the server chip he stole back from you. Breathe, focus, aim and shoot—your bullet hits him in the back, just left of his spine, too low for the heart, but close. He falls to his knees, turns himself until he's leaning against the tower. Blood soaks through his uniform, staining the white stripes red, and you feel your mouth curve in satisfaction. Your mission is nearly complete.

A high-pitched whine sounds through the Helicarrier as its cannons charge. Project Insight will succeed.

But you still have one mission to complete. Rogers is weak, bleeding out on the railing above you. This is your best chance to finish him off.

The best route up is the tower. You'll have to scale it as he did, which won't be easy with your right arm down for the count, but you'll find a way. As you make your approach, Rogers drags himself to his feet and slumps against the control panel. He stretches his arm out and slots the server chip into place. There's a soft beep.

The carrier's underbelly rumbles, as the cannons shift position.

"Fire now," you hear him say, and when you look over your shoulder, out through the glass, you see another carrier's cannons aimed at you. "Do it!" he says, more loudly.

 _No,_ you think, desperation warring with rage in your mind. You have to stop him—undo whatever it is he did.

"Do it now!" he yells.

The carrier lurches as it's hit by a barrage of cannon-fire. Outside, one of the other Helicarriers erupts in flame. They're going to destroy each other. And it's far too late for you to stop them.

But you still have one mission you can complete.

Rogers stumbles above you as the control panel tower wavers—the support beams are buckling, starting to detach. Determined to finish him off, you raise your gun. You will complete your primary mission. Even if everything else fails. You will.

You line up the shot, aim for his head, right between the eyes. Something huge and heavy slams into you, knocking you down. The pain in your right arm is excruciating and you cry out. Part of the carrier frame—a long metal arc— has you trapped underneath it on your side, left arm stuck between you and the floor. The frame weighs down on your torso and broken arm and you can't move an inch.

Something else falls from above, lands with a thud a few feet away from you. Rogers. He's laying on his side and you don't know if he jumped or fell, but he's still moving.

You struggle impotently against the hulking metal frame as Rogers pushes himself to his feet and picks up his shield. He's come to finish you off.

Rogers staggers as he walks closer, clutching his shield. Maybe he'll bring it down on your head, and end you quickly. Maybe he'll show mercy.

The Helicarrier lurches rapidly downwards, losing altitude until it collides with something. You strain to see but can't turn your head far enough. The impact knocks Rogers to the floor as he makes his way towards you. He pushes himself back up onto his knees, shoves his arms under the metal beam and lifts, straining with the weight. It moves—first an inch, then another—just enough space for you to get free. So you turn, bringing your left arm up from underneath you. As soon as it's free, you use your metal hand to grab onto a beam of the ship's floor closest to you and drag yourself up and out from under the heavy weight.

Behind you, Rogers lets the frame fall with a loud thump. You're badly damaged, your legs only mildly fractured, but your right arm is even worse off than before; it hangs uselessly from your side, at least two breaks in the humerus and a dislocated shoulder. Lacking the strength to push yourself to your feet, you prop yourself up with your left arm and turn to face your enemy.

"You know me," Rogers says, climbing to his feet.

 _Rogers will try to confuse you. Dissuade you…_ "No I don't!" you yell, throwing a hard punch against his shield. The hellicarrier sinks again, and starts to fill with smoke as the horizon outside tilts hard.

"Bucky, you've known me your whole life."

He's still lying. Still trying to confuse you. You lash out again, slam him with a backhand from your left, knocking him down. Another explosion rocks the airship.

Rogers turns right back towards you—stands slowly, raising his shield, showing it to you like he's presenting it. But still, he doesn't attack and you can't understand why.

"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes"

"Shut up!" you yell, slamming the shield with your fist. He falls and so do you, exhausted and weak with injury, your breathing labored from inhaling the hellicarrier's burning fuel. You push yourself back to your feet, and look out through the cracked glass wall of the carrier's side. Outside, the world is on fire.

"I'm not gonna fight you," he says and drops his shield through a hole in the carrier floor. It falls down through the smoke into the river below. "You're my friend."

But you know that's a lie, because you don't have friends. You don't have anyone. Hydra has you. Hydra owns you. _Rogers will try to confuse you._ You won't let him, you can't. The carriers have been compromised—Hydra's plans are collapsing all around you in three giant fireballs, but Rogers is still your mission—the only one you can still complete.

You run at him, grab him, slam him onto the floor, pinning him underneath you. He doesn't resist. "You're my mission," you say as you pull back your fist. You punch him again and again, feel his jaw bone crack, see the skin on his cheek split open even wider and still he does nothing to stop you. He's given up. His passivity infuriates you and you repeat yourself—"You're my mission,"—each word punctuated by your fist. You bring your arm back one more time, hesitating when you see the large swelling under his eye, though you don't know why. You don't stop, you don't hesitate. You're given orders and you carry them out.

But you can't.

He catches your gaze and there's something terrible in his eyes—sorrow and compassion. "Then finish it," he says, words slurred with swelling. "'Cause I'm with you to the end of the line."

The words send a shockwave through your whole body, paralyzing you. Time slows. A memory spills out into your field of vision, overlaying reality: his face—what used to be his face—smaller and younger. Those very same words echo in your head in your own voice. Your hand is on his shoulder and you're telling him to trust you, to believe in you. He's lost everyone else, but he hasn't lost you, he never will. Because it's your job to take care of him.

Something clenches your chest so hard you can't breathe. Steve. His name is Steve.

The control panel tower slams into the bottom of the carrier, taking half the floor with it. Instinctively, you grab hold of a support beam above with your left hand, but Rogers—Steve—falls down amidst the burning wreckage into the water below.

You watch him tumble through the air, through smoke and fire, and you remember looking up at him as you fell—snow, and ice and him reaching for you. The fingers in your right hand flex out, but he's already gone. His bloodied body breaks the surface of the murky blue-grey river and disappears into the depths.

And then you remember—it's your job to protect him. He is your mission. He's always been your mission.

You spread wide the fingers of your left hand and drop straight down into the water below. The river feels like bedrock as you crash into it, narrowly avoiding the giant hunks of smoking metal and rubber all around you. The water is ice underneath the boiling heat from the shrapnel, and you dive through it, deeper and deeper, until you find what you're looking for: a slim trail of air bubbles. You follow them down until you see him—see him sinking. Your metal fingers wrap around his harness just as the air bubbles stop.

It's difficult to drag him up to the surface with your right arm nearly useless, but you come up for air as quickly and safely as you can, staying out of sight. You wrap your left arm around his chest and use the waning strength in your legs to get the two of you to the nearest shore away from the fire. It's secluded—far away enough from the wreckage to not draw attention, but close enough that rescue crews will find him in a matter of hours. Maybe less.

He's heavier once you bring him ashore. You drag him up onto the riverbank, let him drop as soon as he's clear of the water and look at him. His uniform is blood-soaked, his face is a mess of swelling and bruises and cuts that you gave him, and he'll need stitches, but there's no doubt in your mind that he'll survive. He's strong. So much stronger than you ever were. Steve's the strongest guy you know. He always has been.

For a few moments he doesn't move, and you're left wondering if you've fulfilled your mission, or Hydra's. But then his chest expands, his head turns and he coughs weakly, water spilling out of his bloodied lips.

Thank God, you think, though you can't remember who God is.

The pressure around your heart loosens and you feel something warm and unfamiliar. Something more than relief. Something almost like joy. For one more moment, you watch him breathe, study the lines of his face. His name is Steve, and you know him. You've known him your whole life. He was your best friend and you were his and it was always your job to protect him.

Hydra will be looking for you. They'll be looking for him, you think, as you glance towards the fiery horizon on the other side of the water. The Triskelion is burning, and the hellicarriers lie in flaming heaps on land and sea. But your proximity monitor stays silent, and your earpiece went dead long before you jumped into the water. Hydra's not gone, they're never gone, but for now, they're keeping their distance.

S.H.I.E.L.D.,on the other hand, is still all around you—two of their helicopters are crossing the river, headed right for you, and there are three small coast guard boats speeding through the smoke. They're looking for him. For Steve. He has people that care about him—the winged man and others. Steve always has people who care about him, though you're certain nobody cared about him as much as you once did. They'll find him, and they'll get him to a hospital—help him recover. From what you did to him.

Steve coughs once more, and for a moment you consider staying by his side. If you stay, then when he wakes he'll give you answers. He'll tell you more about Bucky, about who you used to be. Part of you wants to know more than anything, but—

You broke his skin, shattered his jaw. He's barely breathing because of you. And if he wakes up and you forget again—if you forget that you're Bucky and remember that he's your target then you might not stop, and it you don't stop—

And if you stay, Hydra will come for you. They always come for you. And if they find you, they'll find him.

Cradling your badly healing arm, you turn your back on him and walk away.

***

The sun is red and low in the sky as you near the outskirts of the park. Sticking to empty streets and side alleys, you weave your way through the city. The extraction point is abandoned. So is the next one, and the next. There's an empty Hydra jeep turned on its side just off the highway underpass. It's still smoldering. There's blood on the street—splatters in patterns that indicate at least three targets, but no sign of the bodies, or the shooters. You lost your earpiece somewhere during the swim, but your arm has a built in homing beacon—the proximity monitors would tell you if a checkpoint was close. But there's nothing. Not a single blip to tell you where to go.

Your mind is muddled and it's difficult to keep your thoughts from tripping over each other. Memories, disjointed and unmoored, float through your brain. A small, poorly lit apartment, couch cushions and thin soup; desert sand soaked with blood; a Ferris Wheel and cotton candy; a trench and gunfire; a round shield and Steve's smile—the one constant in what used to be your life. They spill into you unevenly—a trickle, then a deluge and you don't know what any of them mean or how to even begin piecing them back together.

But Hydra's commands ring clearly through the chaos of your thoughts—protocol for a disconnect scenario —for a failed mission. Your instructions are to head to the closest base, so you navigate back to the last one you remember: the vault.

The ache in your broken arm and shoulder grows steadily worse.You stop in an alley, and clamp your knife sheath between your teeth. Using a fire escape ladder for leverage, you pop your shoulder back into place. Your muffled scream sets two rats scurrying out from underneath a torn garbage bag.

Gingerly you test your range of motion. The fractured humerus has already started to heal but the break was sloppy and it won't mend evenly unless somebody resets the bone first. Hydra will fix it. They'll shoot you full of colored ampules and put the arm in a splint and bed you in ice and when you wake up you won't even remember being hurt. You won't remember failing.

You won't remember him.

The thought makes your heart stutter, and you hesitate by the end of the alleyway, consider not returning to Hydra. For just a few fleeting seconds, you contemplate what kind of life you'd have without them, without orders, without Pierce controlling your every move. _"Bucky,"_ Steve called you, and it was your name once—you don't remember when or how, or who you were. But you're pretty sure it was better.

Steve cared for you, he reached for you, he wouldn't fight you, let you beat him to a pulp, even though he was your mission. _Because_ he was your mission, you correct yourself. It was your mission to kill him and you failed. He survived, and when Hydra finds out they'll send someone else to finish the job. But he has people that care about him, people that will protect him, and he's strong.

If you don't go back to Hydra they'll look for you, and they'll find you. You look down at your metal arm, know there's a tracking device somewhere inside, though you have no idea where. They'll find you. And when they do, they'll fix you, or they'll decommission you. And after what you did to him—to Steve—you think that might be for the best.

***

The bank is closed for the night by the time you get there, but the exterior access door to the basement opens easily once you break its lock.

The stairwell is as empty as the hallway—no guards, no soldiers, no men in white or blue. The door to the vault itself is open. There's a dead man lying on the floor, just by the entrance. His gun is still in his hand. You step over him and survey the rest of the room. The computer terminals are riddled with bullet holes. The monitors are off, except for one that flickers between black and pale green. A man in white lies sprawled across your chair. You push him off, watch the blood from his head wound smear across the arm rest.

Hydra will come for you. They know where you are, they always do.

You sit in your chair and wait.

***

The pain in your arm dulls and then spikes again when a loud crackling sound makes you jerk. A wire sparks on the far side of the room. The computer monitor the wire's connected to flickers, but the attached CPU is a charred mess. You sink back into the chair again and stare up at the halo—remember its heavy steel grip closing around your temples, the cold pressure and fiery lightning burn of your brain being emptied.

Without the electrical charges keeping your neurons in check, your brain starts to re-knit its old synapses. Your healing makes you a good long term investment for Hydra, since your body always recovers, no matter how badly it's damaged. But the grey matter in your head is just another body part, and it tries to heal itself like the rest of you, sends blood into singed vessels, forcing them back to life.

_You steal a bottle of whiskey from your old man's liquor cabinet. It's nearly full and he'll be pissed as Hell when he finds out, but after what happened at the schoolyard today, you and Steve have the right to celebrate. You hide out behind the butcher shop, and it takes the two of you nearly three hours to finish it off. It leaves your head full of cotton and Steve falls asleep, leaning on you. You carry him back to his place, or try to, but trip and fall._

_When you wake up the next morning there's a fishbone stuck in Steve's hair and it's the funniest damn thing you've ever seen. He punches you in the shoulder and yells at you, then clutches at his head. You pick the fishbone out of his hair and tell him he stinks worse than any dead fish. He throws up on your shoes._

Steve's face broke beneath your fist. You bloodied his eye, split his skin and you would've killed him. You were supposed to kill him. And he would've let you.

That clutching sensation fills your heart again and it cramps up, burns tight as more memories spill into your consciousness. _The cat behind the grocer's, that horrible sound Steve made when he couldn't get enough air, your Ma's perfume, the sound of German Panzers rolling across a field, the gurgle of a sliced throat, Красная Комната, cinnamon hair._ Your mind feels over-full, ready to burst, and the memories keep coming—so many, so vivid, so awful and so beautiful they can't possibly be yours. And then you remember the train—remember falling, remember waking in a room with men in white and men in blue and there's metal where your hand should be and a deep cold-burning rage in your gut that doesn't ever go away. They tell you who to kill and you do as they say.You snap necks, you shoot between the eyes, you gut men like fish, you set bombs, you make it look like an accident.

You do as they say because it's all you know. Until one day, when you start to remember.

_They send you after a senator. You find him sleeping on his pool chair, hold his head under the water until he stops moving and push him in. You stay and watch his corpse float for a few minutes to be sure. His radio's on. The announcer talks about a Ferris Wheel bigger than the one at Coney Island._

_Instead of returning to your extraction point, you go to the nearest bus station and go to Dallas, then Chicago, then New York. You make your way to the Brooklyn Bridge, walk along the water but can't find the Ferris Wheel. You wake up in a dim room filled with other men who look just as lost as you. They give you a bed to sleep in, and a blanket to hide your arm because it makes the others nervous._

_You're there for three days or maybe a week or a month and then the cops come. They say they need to ask you some questions, take you outside and knock you out cold._

_They bring you back to Hydra, sit you at a table, chain you to a chair and stick wires to your head. They ask you questions you can't answer: 'Why didn't you return to the extraction point? Where were you going? Why New York?'_

_Dr. Zola comes in and watches you. The others leave and he studies the markings on the paper coming out of the little machine on the table. He places a folder in front of you and opens it. There are photographs inside. He shows them to you one by one, asks you if you recognize any of them—men and women in uniforms, most of them brown and green, one of them blue. You don't. Not until he shows you the last photo of a skinny young man in a loose white t-shirt._

_The needle on the machine jumps up and leaves a sharp spike on the paper._

_"Is this who you were looking for?" the doctor asks._

_"He liked the Ferris Wheel," you answer._

_Zola licks his lips, and turns off the machine. He pulls the electrodes gently off of your skin and leaves the room._

_When he comes back he has a different folder, with newspaper clippings. There's a picture of an airplane, and the headlines read: 'Captain America Plunges to Icy Death!,' 'America Mourns the Death of Steve Rogers,' 'Rogers Crashes Nazi Plane - Saves New York!'_

_You look at the clippings then back up at the doctor._

_"Your friend is dead," he says. "You have been searching for a ghost."_

_"I died too," you tell him._

_"So you did. And perhaps that is why you think you can find him." His lips curve slightly. "But you know what happens to ghosts when they find what they're looking for, do you not?" He takes off his glasses and cleans them with a handkerchief before placing them back on his nose. "They cease to exist."_

The room from the past melts into the curved glass of the Helicarrier. You were dead and so was Steve, and you were supposed to kill him. You tried to kill him. And he would've let you.

The back of your throat burns as you cough up bile. A wave of nausea hits you and then another. The room tilts and your head pounds. Hydra always finds you, but not this time. This time they're not coming for you. Because you failed them.

The halo doesn't budge; it stays where it is, cold and silent. You look over at the computers, trying to remember which one the men used to lower the metal vice, and you're pretty sure it was the one closest to your left. You stand and walk to it, look at the busted screen and try to remember the keys they pushed. The keyboard is still intact. You press a button, then another, but nothing happens.

You pull on the halo, force it lower down to where your head is when you sit. Back in the chair, you pull its halves closer together, until they're touching your skin, but there's no spark, no cleansing burn.

There's another crackle from the computer in the far back, followed by a soft beep. You push the halo apart, turn your head and see words appear on the cracked monitor. You can make out enough of the unbroken letters to figure out the words. _Reset the breaker._

The words stay on the screen, cursor blinking. Then the words repeat themselves, _Reset the breaker._ The cursor blinks three more times and more words appear: _I can help you._

You scan the room, and find the breaker box on the far wall by the door. One breaker is tripped and you flip it off then on. Several machines in the room beep and whir as they turn off and on again, fans spinning to life. As you head back across the room, new words appear on the cracked display: _Have a seat. Close your eyes. I'll fix you while you sleep._

The halo moves at your approach, both halves open wide and crackle with energy. You take another step towards the chair and think of ice, the silence of it. New words appear on the monitor, drawing your attention: _And when I wake you up again, you'll be as good as new. Better._

Terror worms its way up your spine and you freeze where you stand. The words on the monitor shift into a face with two empty circles for eyes.

You run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flashback scene where Bucky breaks Hydra's control long enough to travel to New York is taken from Brubaker's Winter Soldier run. Those few panels were so gut-wrenching, I just had to expand on them.
> 
> \-----  
> also follow [How They Make You a Weapon](http://howtheymakeyouaweapon.tumblr.com/) on tumblr- chapter 3 is now a comic with art by [luckyraeve](http://luckyraeve.tumblr.com/)!


	13. Chapter 13

The air in the bar is thick with smoke. You're nursing your fourth scotch. The first three didn't do a thing for you. You're mind's still just as awake, and you can't get your shoulder blades to relax. Steve left a few minutes after Peggy, and even though you know him—know he's just headed back to his own bed, there's another part of you that keeps thinking, _he was awful moon-eyed with her, and he doesn't need much sleep anymore these days._

You haven't slept a wink yourself since Steve found you. The Red Skull's twisted face is burned into your retinas, always staring back at you when you close your eyes. And it's not much better when you're awake.

The other commandos are still at the table nearby. They're telling loud, filthy jokes—some you taught them. You wish you could join in and fall back into your old, familiar patterns, but that prickling under your skin hasn't stopped, and Dr. Zola's waiting for you at the bottom of your glass every time you take another swallow. Worse, you can still feel him staring at you from across that walkway— looking you up and down, searching for something—some evidence of what he'd done to you. He'd looked vaguely disappointed.

You can't remember all of it, mostly just the cold table, dozens of needles piercing your skin and the sound of a machine humming so deep it rattled your bones.

The first second you were alone you'd stripped off your shirt, looked for anything that had changed—any sign of what he did to you, but you couldn't find a thing. No incision, no stitches, not a single scratch. But you know Steve pulled a needle out of you when he found you. And yet even that spot is clear, like it was all in your head. It wasn't. You know it wasn't.

When you'd shown Steve the spot on your arm where the needle mark should be he'd shrugged, forced the concern off his face and said, "I heal quick too. Maybe that's as far as he got."

But you know that's not all Zola did. And so does Steve. You can see it in the way his brow furrows every time he stares at you when he thinks you won't notice.

Something's different, and it's getting worse. You feel like you're looking through one of those doodads you saw at the fair once—a zoetrope. The world's slower now, made of stuttering images and your brain can see every last detail of each one. There's a fly that's been buzzing around the barkeep's head for the last hour, and you know exactly where the damn thing is. The barkeep keeps swatting and missing, and the next time he comes close, you grab his dishrag, whip it through the air and smack the bug down onto the counter. The barkeep winks at you appreciatively and refills your glass before disposing of the fly. "Been trying to get him for days. Big sucker, too."

The fifth scotch is just as useless as the fourth.

Steve comes back in from the other room and he's got his arm wrapped around Peggy's waist...but they left an hour ago didn't they? You wonder if the scotch is starting to work after all.

They have eyes only for each other, walk past you without a glance, all the way across the room until they're alone in the empty back corner. Peggy smiles and traces her fingers over Steve's cheek; Steve pulls her in close, leans down and kisses her deep and slow.

Something ugly curdles in your gut. You don't even know if you're angry at him for captivating her so completely or if you're mad at her for doing the same to him.

And it's not that you don't like seeing them happy. God knows somebody deserves to be—especially nowadays when the world's gone to shit and every day is likely to be your last. Steve deserves to be happy—he deserves it more than anybody.

But _you_ used to make him smile. Even when he was coughing up a lung; even when you found him staring up at you from the cobblestone with a busted nose and black eye after taking on somebody twice his size. You got rid of whoever it was, you pulled Steve back up to his feet, got him a hunk of ice and told him to, _"Wait for me next time, punk."_ You always knew how to make him smile. You were there for him. Every time. You were always there for him.

And now you're barely there at all. You're out of sync with the world, a half-step behind or a half-step ahead, and you don't know how to get back on the rails. You grab onto your glass like it's a lifeline, swallow down every last drop of scotch. It tastes like air.

Peggy laughs, high and joyful. Your fingers clench tighter around the empty glass and it shatters in your grip. But the shards don't hurt as they slice your skin, and nobody but you seems to notice the glass chips clinking to the floor. Nobody hears, nobody sees, nobody cares.

Steve and Peggy certainly don't. They don't see you. Neither of them do. They look at each other like they're the only ones in the room.

Before you can stop yourself, you stand, hands curling into fists, and take a step towards them. That rage inside you is growing and all you want to do is pull them apart and scream at them—at Peggy for making Steve look at her like that, at Steve for not needing you anymore.

But they don't notice you. They're dancing to the light strains of piano music drifting in from the other room, foreheads pressed together. And they're so enamored, so happy that they don't hear the shots ring out. _One. Two. Three._ You whip around, gun drawn—even though you swear you didn't bring yours—and the barkeep is slumped across the bar, a neat hole in his head. The bald man at the corner table is bleeding out through his shirt, eyes vacant, hand still wrapped around his bottle of beer. The piano player isn't playing anymore.

And there's no shooter. No matter where you look, you can't see who fired the shots.

"Get down!" you shout, desperately willing Peggy and Steve to hear you.

Peggy does. She pulls back from Steve and looks disapprovingly at your gun. "Put that away, you'll hurt someone." Then she rests her cheek against Steve's chest and goes right back to dancing with him.

They move in a lazy, close circle, bodies pressed too close together to be a waltz and Steve grins at you over her shoulder.

"I'm a lucky guy," he mouths, without speaking a word.

"Get down," you growl at him. He has to know you're not messing around.

But they just keep dancing until Peggy's facing you again. She's still smiling, eyes closed and there's a bullet-hole in her temple. Blood trickles down her cheek; Steve wipes it away with his thumb like a tear. He brings it up to his mouth and meets your gaze, perfectly calm.

You stagger backwards, raise your hands up, and your gun is smoking. It falls from your hand, clatters to the floor—a SIG-Sauer from one angle, a Colt from the other.

Steve wraps his arms more tightly around Peggy, rests his chin on her head and keeps dancing, dragging her limp feet across the worn, wooden floor. When she's facing you again she looks different—her chin is smaller, her hair has lost its curls and looks more cinnamon than chestnut. There's blood crusted around her pale grey, open eyes. She smiles like she's sharing a secret and says, "Привычка – вторая натура. Can't change what's in your nature, can you?" Her face goes still, and all the color drains from her skin.

Steve stops dancing and lets go. Natasha slumps to the floor and her hair has curls again.

You take a step towards them, reaching down for her, but Steve stops you, puts his hand gently on your shoulder. "It's okay, Buck." A broad, purple bruise forms on his cheek. "It's not your fault." His lip splits open with the last word. His right eye is swelling shut.

Jerking out of his grip, you take a step back and stammer an apology. Or try to. But your words are muffled and there's a muzzle around your mouth and when you reach back behind your head to pull it off it takes your skin with it. But the pain doesn't register, just the feel of air against the raw wet flesh of your jaw. "I'm sorry," you say.

"I know." Steve steps forward and you flinch back, out of his reach before he can touch you again. But it's too late. Three more shots. _One. Two. Three._ His uniform stains a deep red and he looks down at the wounds, then back up at you.

"I trust you," he says.

And then there's a fourth shot. A hole forms between Steve's eyes. Blood trickles down his forehead, runs over the dent in his nose—right where he broke it fighting Johnny Rothschild in grade school.

His eyes go empty and he collapses.

You wake to the sound of screaming. Your thin tank top is soaked with sweat.

The room is dark, lit only by the faint light coming in through the cracked vertical slats covering the window. There's a pile of crumpled empty beer cans in the corner left by previous occupants. A cockroach crawls along the ceiling, antennae twitching as it nears a large crack in the center.

There's noise from outside—scuffling and a cut-off shout. Staying low, you move to the window and look down. The alley below is lit in two spots, with a long patch of dark in the middle, but it's enough for you to see.

Two men—equal height, different builds. The bulkier one's got a baseball cap and he's holding a gun.

"Don't—don't shoot." The other man stutters. He reaches his hand towards his jacket pocket.

"Stop moving!" snaps the man in the baseball cap. He lunges forward, grabs the smaller man by the shoulder, holding the gun to his head.

You slide the window open and climb through, hanging from the ledge briefly before you drop two stories down to the ground. The layer of cardboard on the street below makes your landing soundless. There are sparks in your vision for a fraction of a second, and your right arm twinges where the broken bones mended back together—too fast and too crooked.

The men don't hear you approach. The mugger is searching his mark's pockets and lets out a satisfied huff when he finds the wallet. He stuffs it in his own jacket. That's when the younger man decides to fight back, stomps down on the mugger's foot, and elbows him in the ribs.

"Fuck!" yells the mugger as he doubles over. His eyes land on you and he aims his gun as he straightens, fires a poorly aimed shot that bounces off your arm with a _ping_. "Fuck," he says again, more quietly, as you take the last few steps towards him, grab his forearm and squeeze. He cries out in pain and lets go of the gun, it clatters to the ground. You kick it under a nearby dumpster and release him.

"Shit," he says, clutching his wrist as he eyes you warily. "Look man, I got no beef with you."

"You have my wallet, though," says the other man. You turn and look at him. He swallows, face gone pale. Then you turn back to the mugger, who pulls a knife from his belt and lunges forward, blade aimed at your middle. You evade, grab him by the shoulder and throw him unceremoniously against the far wall on the other side of the alley.

He slumps to the ground, face-down. You walk over to him, reach into his pocket and pull out the pilfered wallet. It's made of brown leather and the name _Tommy Hilfiger_ is stitched into it. You head back to the victim.

At your approach, the younger man—Tommy—turns to you, eyes widening in fear. He lets out a yelp as you take another step towards him, holds up his hands like he's surrendering. "You—," he points at your metal arm, staggers back until he hits the wall and swallows hard. "You—you some kind of terminator or something?"

His ramblings make no sense, but you hold the wallet out to him anyway.

"Take it," he stutters. "I don't even care anymore, man—" He's shaking, shuddering—terrified of you. "It's been a real crappy night."

You give him another moment, then toss the wallet at him. He doesn't make a grab for it, doesn't move a muscle, and it lands half on his shoe.

A trash bag rustles in the back of the alley as the mugger starts to stir. His baseball cap slides off when he pushes himself to his knees. You move closer to him until you're standing less than two feet away. He looks up at you, lips curling into a snarl. "Asshole," he spits, right hand curling into a fist. He pushes himself to his feet and tries to punch you, but you sidestep him easily, wrap your right arm around his neck and squeeze until he goes limp in your grip.

You drag him further back into the dark and lay him down on a small pile of cardboard. He won't be out long. You consider his prone form for a moment. He's just about as broad as you in the shoulders.

***

The sleeve of your new jacket catches on the jagged bit of metal sticking out from your left forearm. After fleeing the vault, you'd stopped, and pried open one of the access panels, pulled out the proximity monitor and the tracker buried underneath. You'd crushed them both and searched the rest of your arm as best you could, looking for anything else Hydra or S.H.I.E.L.D could use to track you. The leather armor had three trackers sewn into its lining, but even after you removed them you had no desire to put it back on. You shed everything they gave you that could be traced—all of your weapons except for your knives and one slim pistol scope. Your only gun now is the Glock left behind by the mugger.

Of course, Hydra could still find you if they tried hard enough. But you won't make it easy on them. You stick to unlit streets and navigate your way through the city, combing your thoughts for a destination. You have no target, you have no concrete goal. Just a few distinct memories of a better time and place—a place you used to call home. _"He liked the Ferris wheel,"_ you think. Brooklyn. Coney Island. New York.

You can find your way there, and you'll find answers there, you're sure of it. There's a golden thread unraveling in your mind and it's tied to that place—to those few bits of memory. If you get closer, if you go there, you'll remember a whole lot more.

A wave of dizziness hits you and another. After another half block, you lean against the wall of the building you're passing to steady yourself. It doesn't pass as quickly this time, but carries with it nausea and black spots in your vision.

There's a convenience store a block away, across the street. They're open and they'll have water. Water will help. You haven't had anything to drink in days. Your legs carry you across the street, and you scan the inside of the shop as you get closer. The refrigerator unit is in the back, the man at the raised counter is older and tired looking. He yawns wide as you enter the store, turns the page of his newspaper. There's a picture of the Triskelion burning, the headline underneath says "S.H.I.E.L.D. Under Fire."

You pull the brim of your cap down lower, stick your hands in your pockets, hunch your shoulders forward. Make yourself smaller. It's easy to blend in, the movements are instinctive. You had decades of practice at disappearing in a crowd, even if you can't remember most of them.

The refrigerator unit in the back is filled with bottles of water, soda and beer. You open it and pull out a big bottle of water, then head back to the counter.

_...day three of the Senate committee hearing. With so much previously classified information now available to the public, nearly every government institution has come under scrutiny, but none so much as the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division known as S.H.I.E.L.D.…_ Your eyes are drawn to the little television mounted to the wall behind the counter. The newscaster's voice continues as the footage behind her changes from shots of the Helicarriers falling from the sky to a room full of men in suits, reporters and a red-haired woman with a fearless expression. _Natasha_. "Hydra was selling you lies, not intelligence," she says.

_"Romanoff's incendiary statements have done little to convince the committee that her report of last week's events are reliable."_

"You want to arrest me, arrest me," Natasha says, lips curving into a hint of a smile. Her real smile, you remember, could part clouds. "You'll know where to find me."

_"Meanwhile, Steve Rogers, aka Captain America is still recovering from serious injuries sustained during the incident."_

The footage cuts to Steve on a gurney with an oxygen mask over his face, and your fingers tighten around the water bottle. The plastic makes a crumpling sound.

"One fifty," the store clerk says.

You look up at him.

He points at the bottle in your hand. "One fifty."

It takes a moment for the words to filter through. The water costs one dollar and fifty cents. You haven't had to pay for things in a long time. Maybe once, you think, remembering a bus and a dead senator floating in his swimming pool. He'd left his wallet out on the coffee table next to his radio—the one that talked about the Ferris Wheel.

You reach into your jacket pocket and find a wadded up tissue and a few coins. You take them out and put them on the counter.

"That's eighty cents." He points at the bottle. "One fifty." He flips his paper shut and huffs, annoyed. There's a picture of Steve on the front of the paper. _'Rogers Fighting to Survive.'_

"How much for the paper?" you ask.

"Seventy-five cents," the clerk says, and points towards a rack of newspapers. You set the bottle down on the counter, grab a copy of the newspaper, and leave the store.

***

It isn't hard to determine which hospital Steve is in. The newspaper gave you enough clues to narrow it down, and of the three remaining locations, one stood out as the clear choice due to its proximity to an armed forces training base. Your suspicions are confirmed when you see the military vehicles parked outside. The newspaper mentioned Steve was under protection, but you know what it really is. You're a weapon, prized and feared, and so is he. They don't want to lose him, but, more importantly, they don't want to lose track of him.

The paper said Steve was expected to make a full recovery. It also said Alexander Pierce was dead. But papers lie all the time, and the dead don't always stay dead. You'd told yourself to stay away, to not draw Hydra to Steve, but he's in a hospital--he's already being watched. And now that you know where he is, you have to see him. You need to.

The admissions desk is staffed by two women. You wait until one of them takes a bathroom break. The other one leaves when there's a sudden, extremely localized power outage. It knocks out the lights, security cameras, and phones in this stretch of hallway. It won't take them long to find the tripped breaker, but you don't need much time. Less than a minute later, you've found Steve's room number.

You head towards the exit, now that you have what you came for— _building C, room 404_ — but pause when you see a water fountain. The water tastes vaguely like copper, but it's cool and you're thirsty enough to drink for nearly a full minute. You feel the constant background ache in your head lessen a bit.

Wiping your mouth, you start to head down the hall again, but slow when you see a large vending machine. Inside are dozens of bags of snacks and candy. Your stomach rumbles and you try to remember when you last had food, but find you can't. Chalky shakes and IV drips of vitamins, amino acids and sugar, yes...but food, no.

The hallway is still empty, save for a nurse who comes out of the men's room and looks around the darkened hallway in confusion. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he heads towards the sliding doors on the other end of the hall. Then you wrap your left hand around the edge of the vending machine cover and pull.

***

The office building across from the hospital is five stories high. Tall enough to keep you out of view from passing traffic and pedestrians, and the perfect height for you to monitor hospital wing C. Steve's room is on the fourth floor. His blinds are drawn, but the vertical slats are cracked just enough for you to see through.

You watch Steve, through the little slivers between the slats, watch him sleep, scan his face to see how his injuries are healing. There are twelve stitches on his jaw. The skin looks puffy, but you can tell it's healing. Even the color in his skin looks better than it did a few hours ago. The next time he shifts in his sleep, his eyelids flutter. He's going to wake up soon.

You unwrap another tootsie roll and pop it into your mouth, chewing carefully as you raise the magnification on your gun's scope.

The hard candy--its taste and scent--shakes a memory loose:

_"It's like a rock, Steve. A sorta chocolate-flavored rock."_

_Steve grins at you. "That's 'cause it's frozen. Warm the other one up in your hand first." He unbuttons the tent flap and heads out into the snow. It's his turn to be lookout._

_You hate when it's his turn. Can't sleep when you know he's on watch. The tent flap buttons are ice cold, so you snap them shut quickly, then look back down at your ration pack, at the last tootsie roll. You stick it on Steve's pillow._

_After a minute or two of laying on your mat with your eyes wide open and your foot tapping restlessly, you sit up. With a resigned sigh, you slip your rifle scope through the opening in the buttoned flap of the tent. Because you can't not keep an eye on Steve. It doesn't work that way._

Steve is sleeping. He's alone in his hospital room, but there are three armed guards outside his door. You catch a glimpse of them every time the door opens. And every time the door opens, your finger hovers over the trigger. Just in case.

It's not a nurse this time, or the doctor, or the other doctor. It's Sam Wilson, who you flung off the side of a Helicarrier. He's no worse for wear, carrying a magazine and a cup of coffee. He settles into the chair next to Steve's bed like he's planning on being there for a while.

You move your finger away from the trigger, and push your thumb against the ring of your scope, decreasing the magnification.

The red and blue metallic glint of Steve's shield catches your eye as you scan the lower left quadrant of his room. They found it—of course they found it, and they brought it back to him—back where it belongs. The wind brushes against your cheek and you remember _snow, the rattle of a train over uneven tracks. You remember holding the shield—how heavy it was, and you remember the incredible force of the Hydra canons that flung you from the train. The shield protected you, but you couldn't handle the impact back then, didn't have muscles made strong through chemicals, pistons, and steel._

Wilson shifts in his seat, and you refocus on him as he pulls a phone out of his pocket and sets it on the small side table. You can't be sure, but you think it's playing music. Your hearing's very good, but you're far enough away that you can't hear the song.

Steve's brow furrows and you think maybe he's dreaming, but then his fingers move, he takes a sharper breath and his eyes start to flutter open.

You tell yourself to leave, to go before he wakes, looks out window and sees you, but your feet are rooted to the spot. His eyes open, his head turns and he looks at Wilson. Steve says something you can't hear and Wilson smiles wide; you see relief there and loyalty. Steve smiles back, stitches and all...and you're grateful.

Steve won't ever look at you like that again, not after what you've done. But it's okay. Because he has Wilson, he has Natasha and he has others who know how _rare_ he is. And he doesn't deserve to lose all that because of you.

You holster your gun, unwrap the last tootsie roll, and leave.

***


	14. Epilogue

 

The banner flaps in the strong breeze, rope snapping against the pole as the fabric tightens. The words and image curl and straighten: _'Captain America: Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum.'_ Steve—all twelve feet of him— look past you, out at the horizon.

You're on your way out of the city. You have to leave, for Steve's sake as well as your own. And even though you keep telling your feet to move, to turn left and head towards the train station like you planned, they don't listen. All you can do is stand there and watch Steve's solemn expression shift in the wind.

A group of kids runs down the stairs and past you. One of the boys shouts, "I get to be Steve!" and the boy in glasses next to him says, "No, you're Bucky! You were Steve last time!"

"But I don't want to be Bucky!"

"I want to be Bucky!" says the black-haired girl in pigtails as they come to a stop a few feet away.

"Then who's gonna be Peggy?" the first boy asks, throwing his hands up.

A frazzled looking woman—their teacher maybe—comes down the stairs with six other children and herds them all into a small orange bus waiting by the curb. You watch them climb in, then stare at the empty sidewalk for a few more seconds before turning towards the museum.

"Extended hours this week," a man in a blue uniform says as you enter. "In honor of Mr. Rogers."

You nod at him and scan the main hall. It's full of people—clusters of tourists, families with children, a man wearing a denim jacket with _U.S. Army Veteran_ stitched on the back. There's another security guard who asks to look inside bags as people walk by, but he doesn't give you a second glance. A makeshift inner holster holds your gun inside your jacket. You keep your head lowered, pull the brim of your cap further down and walk through the arched hallway on the left, labeled _'Things That Fly.'_

Airplanes from various decades hang from the ceiling. One of them‚ a rocket-plane, sends a shiver of cold down your spine. There's a satellite hanging from above that's been up in space. You walk by a lunar lander, past the hull of a jumbo jet and then out to the escalator. Two more banners of Steve—twins of the one outside— flank the escalators.

As the metal stairs carry you up, you run your thumb over the folded up newspaper clipping in your right pocket. Alexander Pierce's obituary. Six paragraphs lauding his accomplishments, listing his humanitarian efforts and awards. Your fingers clench into a fist and you squeeze your eyes so tight you see stars, reminding yourself of your plan. After the museum you'll go to the train station,get to Virginia, to Arlington. You'll find his grave, exhume the body, examine it until there's no doubt in your mind that it's really him, that he's dead and never coming back. Because the dead don't always stay dead, especially not when they served Hydra in life.

At the top of the escalators there's a silhouette of what's supposed to be be Steve and the wall reads: _Captain America - The Living Legend and Symbol of Courage_. Just around the corner, there's a mural of Steve saluting, and at the end of the first short hallway theres a life-size display of a younger Steve, ninety-five pounds and shorter, the way he was before Erskine. A kid walks in front of the image and it changes to the other Steve–the soldier they turned him into. The kid runs off, and you walk up to the display, toe to toe with the image. You wait until smaller Steve shows up again, but can't meet his eyes either. You failed them both.

Further down the hall there's a small bicycle with Steve's old paperboy bags attached to them. Photos of him training at Camp Lehigh decorate the wall.

_"I kinda miss that place," Steve says, voice hushed. You're laying next to him, scope focused on the snowy valley below, waiting for a troop of Hydra soldiers to pass through. "Lehigh. I mean, Colonel Phillips was a pain in the neck, but…" he cracks a smile. "I could do all the drills now. Wouldn't even get winded."_

_You smirk back at him. "Have to come up with whole new drills for you…" The convoy you've been waiting for comes into focus, and you bring your scope up. The bucket cars slow their speed to a crawl and come to a stop by the gate. The driver climbs out. You catch a glimpse of the man in the passenger seat. "Ready?"_

_"Always," Steve says. You hear the clang of his shield, muted by the snow, as he mounts it to his back._

_The passenger—the Kommandant— leans forward, to light a cigarette. You line up the crosshairs with the back of his skull and fire._

The room changed while you were lost in thought, or maybe you walked into another room. There's a motorcycle in front of you, a familiar one, though it's far shinier than you remember, and the bags are the wrong color and shape. As you walk on, the speaker to your left blares to life. _"Battle-tested, Captain America and his Howling Commandos quickly earned their stripes. Their mission: taking down Hydra, the Nazi rogue science division."_ Footage of the Commandos plays on a screen next to another glass case with more random objects preserved like ancient artifacts—a beret, a bowler hat, a cigar. You're frustration grows the longer you stand there staring at them, because you should know who those things belonged to, why they're important, but it's not until you read the signs that they slide into place: Dernier, Dugan, Morita. All those objects given relevance only in context.

 _"That was a difficult winter,"_ a familiar voice says from around the corner. You walk towards the sound of her voice and find a small theater with three rows of benches. A movie is playing—projected on the wall. Peggy Carter, older than you remember, and just as beautiful. _"A blizzard had trapped half our battalion behind the German line."_

 _"Steve—Captain Rogers— fought his way through a Hydra blockade that had pinned our allies down for months. He saved over a thousand men."_ You watch her speak, and settle down on the bench furthest from the screen and the entrance. " _...even after he died, Steve was still changing my life,"_ Peggy says, and her smile looks pained.

The movie footage changes, the backdrop becomes a sloping vineyard. An old man sits on a porch, in a rocking chair. _Gabriel Jones_ the text on the bottom of the screen says. _Gabe,_ you think.

_"What can you tell us about October 1943?"_

_"Hydra captured us—the 92nd, the French Resistance, and all of the 107th,"_ Gabe says. _"Locked us up in cages. Every once in a while they'd pull somebody out, and whoever it was...we never saw them again."_ He shrugs. _"Except for Barnes._

_ "Captain Rogers rescued you." _

Jones nods and smiles. _"Almost as surprised to see him as we were to see Barnes still in one piece."_

_ "In 1945, you took Doctor Arnim Zola into custody." _

Zola's name sends a shudder down your spine. You crack your knuckles, take a breath and keep your eyes on the screen.

 _"Yes."_  

_"What can you tell us about him?"_

The smile fades from Jones' face. _"I could tell you plenty, but I don't know that I want to."_

_"He was one of Hydra's most dangerous scientists. According to many, his capture helped deal the final blow. You received a Medal of Honor, it must have been a proud moment."_

Jones lips quirk. _"You misunderstand me. I didn't want to turn him in. A man like that—"_ he looks off across the field and falls silent.

_"Did you want retribution? For what they did to you?"_

Jones shakes his head. _"Not me, no."_ His face grows grim. _"_ _It's easy to say, 'Hydra is evil,' but it's not that simple. They don't torture for the sake of torture, or even for intelligence._ _I saw enough of their labs to know._ _"_ He pauses, takes a drink from his glass of wine. _"People are a means to an end. The ones they took were…raw material to them, you understand?"_

_"No, I can't say that I do."_

_"Good,"_ Jones says. _"Let's hope you don't ever find out."_

Still images follow. Zola captured, in handcuffs, chained to a table. A shudder runs down your spine, and you hear his voice echoing in your head, _"We are, both of us, creatures of war."_

Terror drives you from the small theater. You feel Zola behind you, the Red Skull right on his heels. Your heart thuds in your chest and you almost slam right into a motorcycle. Another movie plays nearby—Steve standing by a jeep. There's a man across from him, studying a map. The footage cuts to them both laughing, grinning at the camera. " _Best friends since childhood,"_ the narration says, _"Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battleground."_

An ache settles in your chest. You're watching yourself on film—know that was you, once upon a time—but can't remember why you were laughing, can't remember how you were ever that happy. _"Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country."_ And that last part is a lie, because you loved your country once, yes…but you gave your life for _him_. And you'd do it again.

There's a large portrait of your face, and text on the right—your former life boiled down to a few paragraphs. _'Captured by Hydra troops…'_ Dragged through the snow, a saw cutting into jagged bone, Zola standing above you. _'…isolation depravation and torture.'_ The burn of poison in your veins, the scalding touch of that damn chair. _'But his will was strong.'_

You can't remember Dugan's smile, the sound of Morita's voice, or why you were laughing with Steve that day. You barely remember that life. A few, fragmented moments are all you have left , and you're not that Bucky Barnes, not anymore.

The face of the man you used to be stares back at you. _'Reunited, Barnes and Rogers…'_ Steve tried to save you, just like he always does. Memories flood your thoughts, incomplete and jagged—decades of death, your hand around throats, on triggers, and you don't want to know everything you did, but you have to know. _'…destroyed Hydra.'_

Names and faces are coming back to you, dozens of them. There are so many—doctors, handlers, the ones who stood by and watched, the ones who kept you in line. You add them to the blood-flecked list in the back of your mind, right under _Pierce, Zola,_ and _Rumlow._

You're not that man anymore. But you're also not Hydra's. You're free.

But you're still a weapon. And you have your targets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly thought this would be a 3K one-shot when I started writing. Wow, was I wrong!  
> What a fascinating character.
> 
> Thanks so much for all your feedback and comments!
> 
> \----
> 
> The talented luckyraeve is still continuing [How They Make You a Weapon: the Comic over on tumblr](http://howtheymakeyouaweapon.tumblr.com/). Make sure to check it out ; )


	15. Update: How They Make You a Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> updates to HTMYAW the comic, sequels and other additions to the series will be noted here.
> 
> words by [ monicawoe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe)
> 
> comic adaptation and art by [luckyraeve](http://luckyraeve.tumblr.com/)  
> 

A new stand-alone fic, [Bucharest (2016)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9642575) has been added

[ How They Make You a Weapon - the comic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2492378?view_full_work=true) has been updated with a new chapter [Juneau](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2492378/chapters/20229130)

 

View [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2492378?view_full_work=true) or [on our tumblr](http://howtheymakeyouaweapon.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [God's apology](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3674619) by [spiderfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire)




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